If
by Storystuff
Summary: Sequel to Never The Twain Shall Meet. When Sherlock comes back again to a distraught John, a brother with too many secrets and a father he hasn't seen in years, is family going to be enough to save him this time?
1. Father

_**A/N  
As a public announcement notice, after last time's crazy author's notes, I have hearby been ordered to stick to plain old ordinary ones this time.  
So, here we go: Disclaimer – Sherlock and all related things do not belong to me, but to Steven Moffat, Mark Gattis, the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own anything.**_

…

_**Yeah, soooo… ordinary is so boring! HI! It's so amazing to be back again! How is everyone? Did you miss me? I missed you! In fact, you guys are the reason I'm back in fact, I miss you lovely people and these awesome characters tonnes and so, here I am! However, a special message here to give ultra-huge thanks to a star reviewer and fanfictioneer, the absolutely amazing Cainchan, for messaging me in inquiry for a sequel and getting me motivated to go through with it. Also a special thanks to the people who took part in the poll on my homepage, you lovely people! After a few people mentioned during Never The Twain shall Meet that they wanted to know more about Sherlock's father, I was pondering the idea, started toying with it a few months ago and now here I am writing it at last! I have to admit, I'm trying to slot back in as best as I can but I'm really really nervous to be posting again since I had a wee bit of a knock to my writing confidence shortly after Never The Twain and subsequently have been scared of the post button XD But, here I am, with help from fellow Fanfiction peeps, so forgive me if I'm blabbering nervously a little here XD  
Anyway, on a more technical note, I really hope you enjoy this chapter, I must have wrote it about 6 times :S As well as this, I'm gunna make this story as open to you guys as I can, like last time, and even though I have things already planned out for where this is going, if there is anything you really want to see, get explained from last time or want to happen, then I'm sure I can oblige! There are also hopefully going to be more flashback scenes, this first chapter being one of them, describing the Holmes' childhood, explaining Mother-dearest's hate for Sherlock and introducing Sherlock's father, so I hope you guys don't mind them too much :S**_

Anyway, I hope we can have some fun and I hope you guys enjoy!

Oh, and P.S. With Sherlock's shocking conclusion, I have to say that plans to kidnap him are, at the moment, difficult. But finding him is just as fun a prospect. Let the games begin -_- Oh, and by the way, the flying monkeys send their regards. We have missed you so much! 

_**A warning also about this chapter: This chapter WILL contain mentions of child abuse, so please do not read if this causes any distress, discomfort or offence and please feel free to message me if you think that it is not appropriate.**_

Anyway, enough babble, here we go guys!  


"Mycroft, Mycroft, come over here!"  
Mycroft looked up from his book, _Government and Politics for the young scholar _and looked over to Sherlock. He was sat on the floor, Mycroft's laptop on his knees, his legs crossed as he leaned over the screen. He'd taken Mycroft's laptop, ignored Mycroft's protest and logged in easily, apparently finding his password easy enough to decipher. _Seven years old and he can still hack into my laptop, _Mycroft thought. He had decided to let Sherlock off with borrowing his laptop for the time being, even though he didn't approve of his brother using it at his age. Then again, as a kid, he had used father's computer in the studio to look up maths problems, the news, anything. _The internet was a revelation to him, all the information he could grasp at his age in one place. _That didn't stop him from planning to take the laptop from Sherlock after a few more minutes or so.  
He looked back to his book.

"You're not supposed to be on that Sherlock," Mycroft said, "it's mine." He caught Sherlock glare at him from the corner of his eye and almost smiled. He looked ridiculously petulant even from the limited view Mycroft had of him.

"Thanks, mum," Sherlock pouted sarcastically, then looked over at him with a childish expression, "you use dad's computer"

"So? That's dad's. That one's mine and _you _shouldn't be using it," Mycroft said.

"Not fair," Sherlock grumbled and Mycroft _did _smile at that. Sherlock was the smartest seven year old Mycroft had ever met and that wasn't just because he was his brother. He read like no young boy Mycroft knew, could work out his brother's password with ease (and that wasn't just because Mycroft was fixated on the Secret Service at the minute, Fort Monckton _was _a good password) and Sherlock soaked up information so quickly it was jarring. It reminded Mycroft of himself at Sherlock's age. Which was not the most placating of thoughts.

"Mycroft, come on, come and have a look at this," Sherlock whined. Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, putting his book down on the little table next to him.

"What?" Mycroft said, lifting himself from the chair and crossing over to sit by Sherlock.

"Look," Sherlock said, pointing at the screen. Mycroft leaned over and quickly scanned the screen. _Woman, 24 commits suicide at home. _He frowned.

"Sherlock, what are you doing looking at this?" Mycroft said. His stomach had dropped the moment he had read the words as his mind immediately turned to the worst conclusion.

Sherlock was smart, incredibly smart, even when compared to his older brother but Mycroft had never worried about that. It was okay for Sherlock to be that smart, for their family, it was almost normal. It ran in the genes. However, up to press, Mycroft hadn't worried about the _other thing_ that ran in the family. The other thing that Mycroft didn't ever, ever mention to Sherlock, no matter what. So far, it hadn't been a problem. Until today. He took in the article, the image of the crying family, the bumbling interview with a police constable and knew, instantly knew, that this was it. The other thing. The darned curiosity with the macabre, the unusual and the potentially dangerous. It wasn't a trait that started with mother.  
In his head, Mycroft always remembered when mother was pregnant with Sherlock, even though he had only been a young boy at the time. She had been humming in the kitchen, the radio playing as she made breakfast and Mycroft had been sat eagerly at the table. He could still smell it, if he tried, the sweet scent and the oil in the pan and the air freshener Mother always used. It only took the smallest things to please a toddler; a plateful of pancakes and unhealthy amounts of syrup and it was like the world was perfectly where it needed to be. He'd been oblivious to everything else until Father had come home from work, shrugging off his jacket onto the chair and turning the radio down. Mycroft didn't know why Father hated Mother dancing in the kitchen but he always turned the radio down when he came in.  
"God awful case," he'd snarled, snatching up a slice of toast from Mother's plate and chewing at it, slipping off his shoes, "Guy was killed in an alley by a pub and you would not believe the mess I've just had to-"

"Robert!"Mother had cried at that point, gesturing to Mycroft, who was sat innocently listening, nibbling on his pancakes. He could never be one hundred per cent sure why Mother was yelling, it was adult things and Mother told him not to worry about it, but at six years old it was a pretty simple enough deduction to make that she was worried about Mycroft hearing gruesome things. Father worked in the police force, in a high up job that Mycroft was proud of him for. Yet Mother never liked him talking about the gory ones. Mycroft knew that she didn't like to hear about them herself and that was why he _knew _that he hadn't got the gene from her.  
After that the memory descended into the same pattern that many memories did and between pancakes and air freshener, there was the ever present yelling, the adult stuff that Mycroft shouldn't understand but is pretty sure that he does, Mother telling him to go to his room, _thump, _an ominous bump from downstairs that's still audible from where he's eavesdropping on the stair steps.

Mycroft knew that the gene was in the family, but that didn't mean that Sherlock had to have it too. He'd read it in a book when he was seven, all about dominant and recessive alleles in a DNA strand, all of which had confused Mother when he tried to explain it to her, so instead she had continued cooing at the cot with Sherlock snuggled inside it, calling him "adorable" and "beautiful" and then putting Mycroft on her lap to read to him. The memory was old and Mycroft wondered if the inherent sadness in her had always been there or if he had added that in later. A lot of time had passed since then, time where Sherlock had grown and Mycroft had looked after him. And that was just it. Mycroft, never Father, who had never had time for Sherlock, or Mother, always in hospital because she was "sick", but Mycroft just laughed at that because bruises don't come from being sick, they come from being hit. It wasn't rocket science and it was a reason whyMycroft had never let Sherlock eavesdrop on their parent's arguments, instead, convincing him to play with him, even if it only made Sherlock all the more suspicious.  
It was Mycroft that had made the pancakes in the mornings on most weeks. He'd packed Sherlock's bag and took him to his first day at school and said that if anyone bullied him, they'd be answering to him. It wasn't that Mother didn't want to look after Sherlock but when she was home it was difficult, strained, ever since Mother and Father began arguing. It felt like a game of pretend to Mycroft sometimes, playing mother, with Sherlock's happiness in the balance. Not to mention his safety. For years Mycroft had kept him away from talk of murders and news on TV but Sherlock wasn't an ordinary kid and parental controls on the TV just didn't cut it anymore.

Now it was all over. As Mycroft stared at the report of the woman's death, his heart sunk. He had failed. For all his concern for Sherlock's safety, for all his wishes that Sherlock wouldn't go anywhere near the route Father was on, he'd done a poor job at showing it. Inside, he could feel the spark of intense curiosity he had trained to keep at bay as he saw the blatant flaws in the investigation and knew that Sherlock would be feeling the same. If Mycroft knew Sherlock like he thought he did, he could already guess what was happening. Sherlock was getting interested, wanting to be involved and, worst of all, getting involved meant danger. Not least because Sherlock was only seven and already looked like he was raring to go out and prove his case. The gleam in his eyes was terrifying and utterly recognisable. Father always had that look, when he had a case, a puzzle to solve. A problem to fix.

"Have you seen it yet?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft kept his composure.

"You shouldn't be looking at this Sherlock, it's bad for you," Mycroft repeated, ignoring Sherlock's question. Sherlock glowered at him.

"It's just the news, Mycroft," Sherlock scowled, "Everyone reads the news." Mycroft resisted the urge to say that "everyone" didn't usually include seven year old boys and that reading the news usually consisted of a newspaper and some kind of hot beverage but with Sherlock being as technology loving as he was already, that rule apparently didn't apply to him. Sherlock turned the screen a little so he could point at it, allowing them both a clear view.

"You've seen it right?" he asked, "The mistake? Right here" He pointed at a line of text. Mycroft didn't want to encourage him, yet he wasn't sure exactly what he should say to deter him. He could see the mistake as plain as day. He didn't want to say so, in case it encouraged the boy but then keeping quiet only meant giving him an opening to brag and Sherlock did that plenty already. In the end, he settled for a quiet nod.

Sherlock looked a little put-out that Mycroft had seen it too but he quickly recovered. "So?" he said.

"So what?"

"Well, we should tell the police right?" Sherlock said, exuberantly. Mycroft gave a snort of laughter. His brother, who played Pirate on the staircase and read books on GCSE chemistry, was playing detective. Mycroft had half expected the magnifying glass to come out and a secretive coat like the ones in the old movies they watched together, where the hero was always a Byronic one, with their coat collars turned up and always one step ahead of the villain.

"Sherlock, I don't quite think that they'd listen to you," Mycroft laughed, "You do know how old you are, don't you?"

"Father is in the police force," Sherlock said, "I could ask him"

Mycroft stiffened at that. Their father didn't pay attention to them at the best of times and Sherlock especially seemed to be practically invisible to him. And yet, Sherlock still had blind faith in the man, always searching for his approval, something that Mycroft had given up on a long time ago. It didn't matter if father acknowledged Sherlock or not, the younger Holmes hunted after his attention like a puppy seeking a treat.

"Sherlock, father is busy," Mycroft said. It wasn't a direct lie, which made him feel a little better.

"But Mycroft, it's so obvious! She left the cat inside the house without food! She didn't open a window or the door, she just left it! She _loved _that cat more than anything Mycroft; she'd never commit suicide if she thought-"

"I see the mistake too Sherlock, but there's nothing that we can do about it. Father is busy and even if he wasn't, he can't open a murder case on an idea about a lost cat from a seven year old boy," Mycroft said. It came out sterner than he had hoped and he pushed down guilt at the puppy eyes his brother gave him. The last thing he wanted Sherlock to do was start getting involved with the police and put himself in danger, his own little brother putting himself on the line for corrupt police officers and normal people.

Sherlock looked moodily at the article; his brain practically audible as it whirred and turned in its thoughts. Mycroft watched him, seeing part of himself in the small boy. They didn't look so much alike and Mycroft wondered if that would change as they got older, although he doubted it. Sherlock was often coming down with colds and flus that stopped him from eating, making him grow thin and pointed, whereas Mycroft was putting on weight as he got older, beginning to style his hair too as he gradually got older but he couldn't see Sherlock doing that. Mycroft clasped his hands together, looking at the computer screen, a habit that he had picked up from looking at father. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his movement but he quickly returned his attention back to the screen, looking morosely at it.

"We could catch the killer ourselves," Sherlock said, both tentative and excited at the same time.

Mycroft laughed, his chuckle serving only to make Sherlock more petulant but he couldn't help it. His brother was downright adorable sometimes.

"Since when did you want to be a detective?" he asked. Sherlock frowned.

"I don't. I just want to catch the man who killed her," Sherlock said, "It's a puzzle." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. Sherlock's voice was unsure, like there was more to the story that he didn't want to mention.

"And?" Mycroft said, prompting him to continue.

"Well… I don't know, don't you think she… her family, deserves justice? For what's happened?" Sherlock said. He said it like it was obvious, like Mycroft should have already filled in that part for himself.  
After years of watching father and mother tearing each other apart, visiting a bruised mother in a hospital and looking after his little brother in an empty house, Mycroft had preferred to cut himself off, sealing his emotions away. It was easier that way, a necessity. Father wouldn't see any weakness, mother wouldn't worry and, most importantly, Sherlock wouldn't see him fall apart. That was the most important thing. Mycroft was the man of the house, taking affairs into hand while father drowned in a bottle of scotch while Mycroft played with Sherlock and called back to the bank telling them that the payments _would _be made soon, putting on an older voice and sending Sherlock out to the garden so he wouldn't hear. It was just easier to put up a wall and not think about having emotions than having to hide them. He simply refused to have them.

The idea of Sherlock being the same, however, scared Mycroft to no end. Sherlock wasn't like that. He was odd, far too intelligent for his own good and often awkward when it came to people, but there was a genuine goodness to him, as deep as it may have been. He saw the better in people, a trait that Mycroft didn't share and even when Mycroft couldn't help but point out the flaws in that, Sherlock had a kind of faith in people. But then again, Sherlock had faith in his father and that didn't work out as splendidly.

Mycroft sighed, pondering the situation.

"The police will have an investigation Sherlock," Mycroft said, "To make sure but past that there really isn't all that much that we can do" Sherlock pulled a face, obviously displeased by the answer and the look in his eyes vowed a return of the subject before long.

"And anyway, if-"

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft span round from where he was sat, eyes immediately hardened against the man who had entered.

"Father!" Sherlock said, scrambling up. Mycroft stayed seating, glaring daggers into the man as he all but ignored his youngest son.

"Mycroft I need those letters," Robert Holmes said, closing the door as he came in, "For the Doctor, he wants to take a look at some things before your mother comes home"

"They're on the kitchen table," Mycroft ground out, "Where I put them when you were-" He wanted to say the word _drunk, _he really, really wanted to but he couldn't, not with Sherlock in the room.

"In your study," Mycroft finished promptly, ignoring how Sherlock noticed the change in tone and glanced questioningly at Mycroft.

Robert Holmes narrowed his eyes. He wasn't a large man, stronger than he looked due to his time training for the force, but he was not muscular or especially well-built, yet he commanded the room, demanding respect and attention, utter obedience. The most startling thing to notice was how much he looked like Sherlock. He was tall, with a build that was wiry, perhaps a little stronger than Sherlock would grow to be with pointed, astute features and the same piercing eyes that Sherlock had, even at his young age. It was the eyes that were most similar, almost exactly the same and anyone that ever saw them together recognised it. The same colour, the same flecks and spark so that they looked almost like exact copies, like the DNA hadn't changed at all from one to the other. The only largely dissimilar feature that Robert Holmes possessed from his younger son was his hair, which was the same colour as both his children, perhaps a little lighter, but it was combed down into a style that Mycroft had tried to copy at times, neat and professional looking and grown-up. That was the important part. It looked grown up.

Now however, Mycroft only noticed his father's expression which looked at him with what looked like fury at his impertinence. Mycroft didn't flinch from the look and kept steady, defiant eye contact with him, even when his insides were roiling and making him want to take Sherlock and go, as fast as he could. Father had never been violent towards either of them, bar once, when he had taken a belt to Sherlock. Mycroft had taken a hit, across the shoulder, when he had stepped between them, yelling at his father to stop, grabbing at the man's hand. Father had shoved him, thrown the belt across the room and shouted, _screamed _at him, drunkenly before slamming the door behind him and heading downstairs, where Mycroft knew mother would be. Mycroft had stood there for only a few seconds, between Sherlock and the door, feet still resolutely planted where they stopped his father from harming his younger sibling. His shoulder had throbbed but he'd ignored it, turning around quickly, hands shaking from fear and adrenaline, scooping up the cowering, crying little boy behind him, shushing him and running a hand through the unruly curls, trying to get the boy to stop crying but not wanting him to hear the crashing and the disconcerting thumps from the kitchen.  
He felt like that now, felt like standing up and putting himself in front of Sherlock, but he stayed seated, his own form of retaliation and trust in Sherlock intermingled. His father stared a moment longer then looked past him, at the laptop.

"Why are you looking at that?" he said. The man's voice wasn't threatening but it was authoritative, strong, disallowing of any defiance. There was a vague youthful quality to the voice, the man being no older than perhaps thirty years of age, but the tone had lost the spring of youth to it a fair time ago and it seemed to resonate now like that of a Victorian father, strict and course, commanding the attention of his family. It was the kind of tone that dared somebody to disobey, like placing a devil on their shoulder, but then at the same time it warned them of exactly what would happen if they did, the wrath they would receive.  
Mycroft looked at the screen and cringed. "Homework," he lied, praying Sherlock wouldn't tell the truth, but of course, he did. He was Sherlock. Always showing off and always, especially, to father.

"It's wrong," Sherlock blurted out. Their father raised an eyebrow and Mycroft felt his stomach twist. Father _never _paid attention to Sherlock. Never. Not when Sherlock had cried when Mother had to go the hospital or when he had tried to show Father his schoolwork or when he tried to tell him about how well Mycroft had handled the man in the suit and the briefcase who came to the house. The bank, asking for their money, not that Sherlock knew that. So the idea that Father had taken enough time to even listen to Sherlock made Mycroft's skin prickle.  
"Is it now?" Mr Holmes said. He sounded almost amused and he walked across the room, taking his time, the air of authority dripping from him. "And how is that?" he said. Sherlock beamed, encouraged and reeled off every piece of evidence he had, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the oldest Holmes. Mycroft _hated _that look. It was sheer adoration, searching for love from a man that didn't have such a thing, _pleading _for recognition. He respected Father, adored him. And Mycroft hated it. Robert Holmes was nothing but a bully and a drunk. He wasn't a hero. Yet no matter how much Sherlock saw, got hurt, even, he never stopped looking for it. That one little bit of praise, the pat on the head.  
Robert Holmes listened and Mycroft could see it in his eyes. The cogs whirring, the idea that he could use Sherlock. If there was one thing that Robert Holmes _did _admire, it was intelligence and the fact that Sherlock had solved a case that wasn't even open; it was like a particularly interested programme on the television. Sherlock lapped up the attention, looking practically star struck and Mycroft refused to admit that he was jealous. Not of the attention, but that Sherlock never looked at him like that, despite everything he did, had _always _done. He was just Mycroft, like he always had been. Just his brother and that was about as far as a seven year old's mind could go, no matter how intelligent they were. When it came to relations, Sherlock was just the same as everyone else, looking for approval from a father who was never there and settling for a brother who always was.

Sherlock looked like he had won the lottery when father raised his eyebrow in approval, taking a look at the article and no matter how good it was to see him happy, Mycroft wished he could tell him. Father was bored. Taking interest in his son for a moment because the whiskey or the scotch and whatever else he was drinking wasn't enough to stimulate his mind for now and the novel crime-solving of his seven year old was more interesting. It was cruel and pathetic and there was nothing Mycroft could do about it. Father just didn't_ care _and that made him angrier at the older man than ever. Not for himself, but for Sherlock. It just wasn't fair. Why was it their family that had to be broken?

Mycroft's head snapped away from looking at Sherlock as he heard what his father had just said.  
"Well, it sounds like a good idea Sherlock," he said, "Maybe I could bring it up at the station, eh? Does that sound okay?" Mycroft's rage suddenly hit a height and he stood up, sliding yet again into the familiar space between Sherlock and his father, ignoring how Sherlock's face lit up at the idea of the investigation.

"Can I talk to you?" Mycroft growled. Robert looked at him, eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me."

Mycroft watched his jaw clench and he tightened his own fists defensively. Eventually, his father's expression softened incrementally and he nodded, moving to one side. Mycroft turned to smile at Sherlock. "Sherlock, could you go get those papers from the kitchen table? Maybe find an envelope for them?" Mycroft said. Sherlock frowned.

"Why?"

"It'd be a big help to me and father, Sherlock," Mycroft persuaded. Sherlock waited a moment. The only trouble with spending so much time with Sherlock was that the younger boy always knew when Mycroft was lying. He gave him a look that said "Tell me later," before nodding and running off to the kitchen.  
The moment he was out of the door, Mycroft rounded on his father.

"What do you think you're doing?" he spat. Robert shrugged.

"Is it a crime to take an interest in the boy? You're always finding him so interesting, I thought I'd see what the fuss is about," he said, "He really is smart, isn't he?" The statement was truthful, honest, but it didn't placate Mycroft. _Far _too much water had passed under the bridge for _that. _

"He isn't some fad, father, he happens to be your son, if you didn't realise it," Mycroft snarled and he saw the dangerous flicker in his father's eyes.  
"Do _not _speak to me like that," Father hissed. Mycroft's bravery faltered for a second before he steeled himself.

"Why did you tell him you'd bring it up with the police?" Mycroft demanded.

"I'm going to," Robert said, his voice suddenly open and honest, unnervingly so, "He's right. I would have noticed it myself if I'd looked into that case"

_Or if you hadn't been halfway into a bottle of alcohol, _Mycroft thought silently.

"He deserved to get his idea recognised, don't you think?" Mycroft felt his anger spark again at that.

"And then what? He grows up wanting to be like…like, you!" Mycroft spluttered, "And gets himself into danger"

"You're over protective of him"

"And you're not protective enough!" Mycroft yelled, barely keeping his voice controlled, knowing that Sherlock would probably be close by, running around trying to find an envelope, "He is seven year old! He's not old enough to be gallivanting around looking at dead people, father! It's dangerous and it's going to get him into trouble and I'm going to have to look after the aftermath of that!"

Robert Holmes looked at him, like he was taking everything in, calculating it, analysing everything he could see ticking in Mycroft's head in a look that was both infuriating and intimidating at the same time.

"I can do what I like with my own son," he said, eventually and Mycroft gaped at him.  
"You're toying with him! This is just a bit of fun until mother comes back and then it'll start all over again," Mycroft said, realisation dawning on him. He shook his head. "I won't let you do it," Mycroft said defiantly, "You're not going to get him hurt and you're not going to let him down, like you always do. I'm not going to let you"

His father waited a moment before he gave a small smile. "I'm only showing an interest Mycroft, I never understand why you're so defensive," he smiled.

"Except from the fact that you've _beaten _him before?" Mycroft snarled. His father's expression changed for a second, only a brief moment, a murderous look in his eyes, before it disappeared.

"That was long ago, Mycroft, you shouldn't keep on bringing it up like you do," he said calmly and then, a smirk crossing his mouth, "And besides… there's nothing you can really do, is there? I mean, not really. The boy would follow me to work if he could. He adores me. Unless you plan on keeping him locked at home, there's not an awful lot you can do, now is there?"

Mycroft blanched and didn't even move as, as if on cue, he heard the door open and Sherlock came in, waving a white envelope. He didn't notice Mycroft's stunned, hateful stare at their father as he turned, smiling at Sherlock, taking the envelope from him.

"There's a good boy," he said, grinning at the young child, making Sherlock beam. The man crossed across the room, opening the door and, with a wave of the envelope, walked out, leaving Mycroft stood, heart pounding angrily as he watched his father leave. Sherlock grinned at him, settling down with the laptop again and typing something in as Mycroft sat, shakily, looking at the door as if fearful it would open again.

He looked at Sherlock. He wasn't going to let Sherlock become like father, never, no matter what.

_**So, um, that's it guys! Chapter 1! Okay, so it's like the 5**__**th**__** rewrite, so I dunno what it reads like, but if you do wanna tell me, then any and all reviews are welcomed, treasured and flailed over with extreme happiness, so please, if you can spare a moment to review, please feel free to! Also, any issues with grammar I have, don't worry about pointing them out to me, I don't mind :)  
Also, for the curious, the title of this fic comes from another Rudyard Kipling poem, in keeping with the other story. It's a poem about a father and son and the journey to becoming a man, which I thought could be fitting :)  
Anyway, thank you so much for reading! On and up as they say! **_


	2. Alone

_**A/N**_

_**Good day my fanfictioneers! How are we all this fine Sunday? (I now have an image of Uncle Vernan saying "Fine day, Sunday … *shudder*). For those of you who don't know, I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to posting (**__**I am also usually late when it comes to posting)**__** which means that I usually post once a week and, like last time, my chosen day is Sunday. Sometimes I'll be late but I'll usually make up for that by posting 2 chapters next to each other, so it's all good.  
Anyways, more importantly than any of that: A massive, humongous, giant-sized THANK YOU and a hug to everyone who read, and especially, reviewed, favourite-d and alerted! It's great to see some of the old faces back, I missed you guys, so feel free to have a bit of banter with me/the story, it's great fun to see you again. And another thing that's great to see: New faces! Yup, for everyone new here, I'm a wee bit crazy, but I already love ya'll already for reading the fic, so thanks, hello and feel free to say hi/input how you like!  
As a quick note: This chapter is VERY John centric, so I apologise for that if it's not your cup of tea :/  
Anyway, onwards!**_

_**Disclaimer: And so it begins. In order to own Sherlock, it makes sense that after his disappearance from TV and from John, I've gotta find him. The monkeys are rallied, the lair is clean and I am ready! I took a train to London today and walked around for **_**12 hours **_**looking for anyone with curly hair and a long coat. Unfortunately, one of the guys I questioned took offense when I mentioned that his curly hair was only a wig. Still holding a pack of frozen potatoes to my face at the moment…the monkeys couldn't find any peas… **_

_**Anyone got any idea as to Sherlock's whereabouts? All ideas welcome!**_

* * *

John had no idea how long he had been sat here. It felt as though he had been sat in the same room for months. In the end, he'd been forced to return. The same as before. He didn't have enough money to rent anywhere else and Mrs Hudson was being generous enough as it was… so he had ended up staying, no matter how much he hated to still be here. It had been months and the flat looked the same. Things in boxes, half between emptiness and the loveable chaos it had had before. Halfway. Like John. Halfway between wanting to leave and needing to stay.

He had no idea how long he'd been here. Since…the incident. Since Sherlock had died. _No, _John snapped angrily in his mind, the thought feeling like something loud in a silent mind, _since Sherlock threw himself from a building. That's how long you've been sat here.  
_  
Anger was a motivator, apparently, according to Trish, his therapist, but there was only so far it could get you before you crashed back down to earth. He'd been so _angry _before. Angry at Sherlock… himself… the police and the newspapers and every person who came past 221 to glimpse at the "fake's" home. To start with, he'd blamed everyone under the sun. He hadn't told anyone anything about his friend. That was _his _knowledge to have, _his _friend and if they were just going to judge him as something he wasn't, then they can think again. He had guarded it like a secret. Trish said that wasn't a good thing. _You'll only tire yourself out with it in the end, _she had said. She was right. In the end, it had tired him out. And now all that was left was a gaping hole, nothing but the too-loud silence and that constant, ever present sinking feeling.

When thinking about Trish, it actually seemed almost strange for her to have a name. The first time they had met, after coming home from Afghanistan, she had introduced herself.

"Hello John, my name is Trish," she had said and then, "Take a seat, John. So, John, how are we feeling today?" She had said his name three times. _Addressing someone by their name is a way of connecting. It commands attention and establishes the bond. _John had read that in a leaflet in the waiting room before going in to meet her. He didn't remember much else of the leaflet other than it was a clinical blue colour, entitled "Coming Home: Integrating after Army Service" and that the section on talking to people had come to mind when he'd met his therapist. He had promptly not said her name once and had ever since almost forgotten it.

That was before Sherlock had- before the jump. After that it hadn't been long before the shakes had come back and the leg pain and "Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, do you know where my cane is?" John had noted that he'd used Mrs Hudson's name twice in that sentence and he wondered if that was significant in any way. Just a few days after his limp had returned he'd gone to see Trish again. He had sat in the waiting room and picked up a leaflet like the two other people in there, an elderly man with a twitch and a perfectly ordinary looking woman in her late forties with a mark where a wedding ring once had been. John only noticed this because she was reading a leaflet too and when John had looked to see what it was, he'd seen her hand and wondered if Sherlock would have commended him on his discovery. He had quickly buried his head in "The Road to Recovery: 10 Steps to Healing".

The ten steps hadn't helped at all and no matter how many times John said the name "Trish" to his therapist, that wasn't helping either. And besides, he functioned well enough. He'd forced himself back to Baker Street and even with the memories haunting that flat, he felt like he couldn't pull himself away for too long. He'd smile at Mrs Hudson and make tea, even though he'd have to clean up the twelve cold, untouched cups at the end of the day. He looked in the paper for jobs, not that he expected one with the current climate. The attractive woman on the ten o' clock news said that there weren't any jobs to be had and after hearing that John had switched off the TV before any crap programmes came on, mindfully keeping his eyes averted from the chair where Sherlock used to sit, shouting at the TV, secretly engaged with it and pretending that he wasn't.  
John had quit his job at the hospital, preferring not to have to work in a building where his friend had jumped from, thank you, he had told his boss. In fact, he had more like shouted it at him. Five days after his return to work and he had suddenly turned on his manager. _You can take your job and stick it- _If John still had a blog, he would have posted where he had told the manager to put it and the response he had got as it would probably do for comedic value and get him a few more fans, however he'd stopped posting on that months ago. There was no point any more when all he would post would be "Bought milk at the shop", "Searched for a new flat today" or "Went out for a walk today, damn leg keeps playing up". _Nothing happens to me._

It all felt familiar. It was machinelike, boring and ridiculously circular because, despite everything that had happened since meeting Sherlock, he was back here. _Again. _Monotonous and trivial, like he was living a life just for the sake of it. He'd walk around the park, walking stick in one hand, coffee in the other and realise that he was back where he had started. He wondered if that was a bad thing. Nothing had changed since Sherlock had died and yet everything was suddenly different to him, all at the same time. Mrs Hudson let him keep the flat. His job was gone but that wasn't hugely different. There were no cases to solve but then again, they had only come when Sherlock had taken him on them in the first place. But worst of all, he was alone, again. He was so alone, alone to the point where it hurt, like an emptiness that couldn't be filled. He was back where he had started and _nothing had changed._

Or at least, not outwardly. Outwardly, nothing was different. It didn't include the fact that Sherlock was a _friend, _not just a case or a colleague and that things _had _changed because now whenever John came home, he half expected there to be a head in the fridge or Sherlock composing his next violin piece and making John sit through it to make sure it was just right, even if he was supposed to be at work forty minutes ago. It didn't include the fact that John almost missed being called an idiot just because he missed hearing whatever Sherlock would have to say. Or the fact that he'd gladly never work another case again as long as he could sit in the flat and watch crap TV and talk about football to Sherlock; who plainly didn't care and seemed to know the outcome of every match before it happened, but listened to John all the same because even though it was boring, he apparently sometimes listened to him pretty much no matter how mundane it was and that always made John wonder why. It was something he'd learnt in the army, that taking a bullet for a friend was something you did because it was your duty but also because you know that, afterwards, you wouldn't want to live without them. John wondered if suicides off of buildings counted.

"This kind of numbness is normal, John," Trish would say, "the loss of a friend, especially one as close to you as Sherlock is going to take time to heal" John had paused at that. The perpetual lump in his throat seemed to tighten and he had to smother an involuntary noise with his hand.

"Heal?" he said. His voice broke on the word and he coughed to clear it, "Right. Heal. Of course" He had gone home after that and laughed, for the first time in months. _My best friend, _John had thought bitterly, _My best friend is… dead. And that just needs _time to heal_? _Then he had stopped laughing and sank into the chair; that same chair and tried to stop tears from falling. It hadn't helped. Checking his phone hadn't helped, like he had been doing for weeks because there was still a hope that Sherlock was alive, _Sherlock had to be alive _and he was just waiting for the right moment to text, probably something mundane and so very Sherlock. _Want to have Chinese?  
_  
The text didn't come, like it hadn't before and the tears hadn't aided John's aim as he had thrown the mobile at the fireplace, hearing it shatter and not caring. He hadn't taken a call in weeks anyway, not from Harry, despite the pile-up of them, or the one call he had got from Mycroft. Lestrade had been strangely silent and he was the one person John would have spoken to. He wanted to ask him where the investigation was. Why was no-one looking into Sherlock's death? Why is no-one doing _anything_?

He told Trish the next day that she had a nice name and that she was right, he was going to heal in time. That had been a lie but at least the bit about her name was true. He'd lied again and said he'd thrown his phone away to "cut off ties" and that he was going for a job, like she'd told him to.

"Sherlock would want that," Trish said. John didn't even nod at that because he knew Sherlock better than her, better than _anyone _and those newspapers weren't going to take that away because Sherlock never once in his life tricked _anyone _into believing he was brilliant, no matter what the media said. John knew that what Sherlock would say would be that a job was "boring" and also he'd whine about not being able to text him because his phone was off. _It's not off Sherlock, it's broken.  
_  
He'd sat with Trish for another hour after that, talked, made promises that didn't really sink in. The room felt the same and John wondered if he closed his eyes and thought real hard, he'd still be sat in that chair, waiting for the text that would never come.

* * *

The mid-morning was warm, surprisingly so for a London day at this time of year. John tried to take some comfort from the state of the weather, the light sunshine shining through the gap in his curtains but in the end he gave up on that endeavour and rolled out of bed. Today was going to be the day. He didn't look at his calendar as he got up, rubbing the cramps out of his leg and grunting at the pain. He had taken pain-killers during the night, or more correctly, in the early hours of the morning, but they weren't working, despite how strong they were. It felt like it was getting worse and with every nightmare, every time he woke up during the night, voice cracking in the dark as he tried to tell Sherlock not to jump, _please Sherlock, don't do it, _his leg got even more painful, to the point where it felt like it was on fire each time he awoke.

The nightmares hadn't abated since he began therapy. They were the always the same. He could hear the traffic and see Bart's hospital, looking up to the roof and seeing the outline of Sherlock, terrifyingly close to the edge. In his ear there was the tinny sound of a voice through a mobile. It was Sherlock's voice but not like John had ever heard it. It was so much smaller than Sherlock's voice, so much so that John could barely believe it was him. Sherlock was larger than life, loud and exuberant and intelligent all rolled into one, but one thing he never was, was small. And why was Sherlock apologising? Sherlock Holmes didn't apologise, or at least, not in so many words. _Alright Sherlock, you're scaring me now. _You're scaring me because this isn't you. It_ can't _be you. The voice on the end of the phone was everything that Sherlock wasn't and it was persuading him, no, telling him to believe that he was a fraud. That this man here, on the end of a phone, was telling the truth to him and Sherlock Holmes was a fake. And as much as John could stretch to believe that maybe, just maybe, his friend really _could _be small as well as larger-than-life and he _maybe _could apologise, just once, he would never _ever _believe that Sherlock Holmes was ever anything less than incredible.

The entire conversation played out in his dream, Sherlock's voice betraying tears and John wanted nothing more than to get up there and pull Sherlock back from the edge. _Stop it, just stop it. _He wanted to, yet he couldn't because there was always a chance that Sherlock would jump if he moved or that he would hate him for it and never forgive him. So he had stayed and that thought had tormented him for days after, wondering if he should have moved or stayed or called for help or- The dream ended the same regardless. The conversation always ended the same. _Goodbye John. _John's head shook as he slept and he clawed at the sheets like he was trying to hold onto the sound of his friend's voice just one last time. _No, no. _And then John would cry out as the figure stepped off the edge, plummeting to the ground. John always awoke before Sherlock fell, screaming like he could stop it just by wishing it. It was like his mind still couldn't process the idea that Sherlock was dead, like it couldn't physically withstand the concept of seeing Sherlock hit the ground.

But if Trish was right, then he must have "processed" it. He must have. After all, today was the day. He'd put in for a job, at last, at a new hospital. Trish said that was good, that he had accepted his situation and was starting to move on. _Pile of rubbish, _John thought. He hadn't "accepted" anything. There was nowhere to move on to. He lifted himself up from the bed, grunting in pain. He had slept in later than he had wanted to, the painkillers knocking him out but it didn't really matter. Apart from the interview this afternoon, he didn't really have anything to get up for. He didn't have to go see Trish today, he had no errands to run for Mrs Hudson and he didn't have anyone that he had to go see today. Nothing happened around here anymore.

He grabbed his clothes from where they were hanging neatly on his door, assembled like a military uniform and he slung them on almost without thinking. He had picked them out last night, something casual but neat in order to impress the interviewer. Getting a job would convince Trish that he didn't need quite so many sessions as she was advising him to have, which was only eating worryingly into his monetary resources. It would take his mind off things, stop him running through that final conversation in the mornings after his dreams, thinking through every word and trying to see what he had missed, what wasn't quite right, any clue that Sherlock hadn't really meant any of it.

There was something almost robotic about the morning routine. After getting changed, John Watson would go into the kitchen and make himself a bowl of cereal. There would be no head in the fridge or toenails in jam jars in the cupboard. When he padded into the living room there was no tapping of laptop keys or wail of a violin. Just silence and an empty chair in front of the fireplace. John had always thought that it was an old fashioned thing to do; sitting in front of the fireplace with his flatmate, watching the telly and talking about the day. People didn't really just sit like that anymore, at least, not without people assuming there was something going on between two men who found it easy to talk to one another for hours in the evenings. Yet they did and it didn't really matter what people thought. Sherlock was Sherlock and that was it, old fashioned or weird or whatever they thought he was, that was just him. Or at least, he was.

John sat, the depressing thought making the room seem infinitely darker and he grabbed for the remote control, the silence too oppressive and uncomfortable to sit in it for longer than even a few seconds. The TV flickered into life and John's mind seemed to stutter into safe-mode for just a second as he recognised the news reader's voice. It was the same news that Sherlock used to watch, the same channel and the same presenter and for a split second, everything seemed normal, the sound of possible cases filling up the room and John could imagine the pause in the song that Sherlock's violin would no doubt be playing this early in the morning, the detective pausing and listening to a particularly unusual case before scoffing like he had already worked out the answer and carrying on his tune again.

The feeling of normality came and went and John found himself only half listening to the programme, half relieved of the break in the silence, the other half of him not giving a care as to what was going on in the world. From what he knew, the world was wrong. They had all got it wrong and they were all gullible. They had all swallowed the idea that their "Reichenbach hero" had been a fake so easily that John had wanted to scream at them. They believed everything the media told them to and if there was one thing that John had learnt from Sherlock Holmes, it was that the media were idiots.

He dug his spoon into his cereal, the mind-numbingly repetitive action not helping his trance like state and he felt himself zone out. He vaguely wondered what everyone else was doing. He hadn't heard from Mycroft at all since Sherlock had died and that almost surprised John, almost being the important word to that phrase. John couldn't imagine that Mycroft wouldn't be grieving; no matter how much Mycroft had angered him for what he had done, no matter how selfish the older Holmes could be, John knew that, in his own way, Mycroft loved his brother. He had expected more than just the one call, he'd expected Mycroft to visit him even, to question him about his brother's last few moments but he hadn't. There had been nothing but silence and John didn't really know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

A lot of other people had been quiet too, after what had happened. Mrs Hudson was the only person John had seen since the incident, except from Molly, but that had only been for a fleeting moment, when he had been called to identify the body. He had been ready to do it; he had stayed up all night, knowing that it had to be done, steeling himself for it. The next day however, he had arrived only to hear that he no longer had to.

"I'm sorry sir but it's not required," a member of hospital staff had told him, "Someone stepped in, they told us that it would not be in your best interests to see the body in that… state." John's mind had immediately thought of Mycroft, wondering if he had somehow grown a heart all of a sudden and identified the body himself, sparing John.

"Who said that?" John had said. The hospital worker had checked a sheet on his clipboard.

"A Molly Harper, a friend of Mr Holmes. She works here," the worker told him and John had nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I know her," he said. He wondered why Molly hadn't said anything and for a moment, a fleeting second, John allowed himself to hope. Was Molly hiding something? Was there something she knew that he didn't? Maybe this was all- He stopped the thought before he even completed it. If Molly knew something, she would tell him.  
The only person John had wanted to speak to after that had been Lestrade and he had even gone to see him at Scotland Yard.

"The Detective Inspector is busy," the receptionist said, "He's in a meeting, would you like me to take a message?" John had shaken his head and left. There wasn't really a way to put every angry comment he had for the D.I into a message. _Why is nothing being done? How could you let Moriarty win? Where is Moriarty? Why are you not investigating this? _After a few days it was clear that the D.I wasn't up to speaking with him either, John's mobile being completely silent, save for texts from Harry, the ones that John promptly ignored (Sherlock had been right at Christmas, Harry's promise to stop drinking hadn't been as solid as he had thought after all), until he eventually threw the phone at the wall. It hadn't helped, but at least the calls from Harry weren't there to interrupt his thoughts anymore. He didn't want to see her as just another failure, another lie in his life. She was his _sister _for heaven's sake and if it meant not speaking for a while in order to preserve that mentality, he would happily do just that.  
He was snapped out of his thoughts suddenly and for a moment, John didn't even know what it was that had broken him out of his spell.

"Sherlock Holmes, hoax or hero?" John blinked and it took him another few moments to work out where the voice had come from. He turned his head to the TV, blinking at it as if he had never seen it before. It had thrown him off balance, as if his thoughts had been projected onto the news programme and his head felt vaguely scrambled as he focused on the show. There was an image of Sherlock on the screen, deerstalker hat firmly planted on his head, his piercing eyes looking out of the screen, not losing their intelligence even on a photograph. The words: "Hot-shot detective or Long-shot deception?" were plastered on the bottom of the screen and John narrowed his eyes at them. It was now three months since Sherlock had died and they were _still _trying to pull him down? He reached for the remote; he'd had enough of this.

His hand had already touched the remote when the news reader had begun speaking again and he was halfway to the off button before he stopped, his mind backtracking to what he thought he had just heard. He frowned, putting the remote down, wondering if Trish was right and the stress was getting to him, sure that he had just hallucinated something. He concentrated his attention on the TV, not being able to believe what he was hearing.

"Today we have received a report from Scotland Yard, detailing an internal investigation of their most controversial consultant ever, the "Reichenbach Hero" Sherlock Holmes," the woman on the news said, "After three months of a private investigation into Mr Holmes and his involvement with several high-profile police cases, the New Scotland Yard has released information of new evidence to their inquiry which is pointing towards a scenario in which Mr Holmes was set-up in his part of the events of Richard Brook's trial and Mr Holmes' recent suicide. An unnamed source in Scotland Yard had said that-"

John stopped listening and for a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped. Sherlock wasn't a fraud and John knew that, he knew that more than he had ever known anything, but to hear it, to hear even the faintest whisper that there was _proof, _real, proper evidence of it, felt impossible. _Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. He never was. _The whole world was going to know it; they were going to believe it. He stood, the thought still sinking in, not knowing what to do. He didn't know whether to finish watching, try and discover what "new evidence" it was exactly that had convinced them or if he should go downstairs and tell Mrs Hudson, whether to call Lestrade or-

The sound of the scream cut through him like a knife and he spun around, the pain in his leg flaring with the action. His blood ran cold and the thoughts in his head didn't even process any more. It came again, smaller this time and John dropped the cereal bowl, panic and fear and adrenaline sweeping through him, the military training kicking and he wasn't even aware of himself moving before he had already ran to the door and ripped it open. The scream had been recognisable instantly and John's heart thumped in his chest as he powered out of the living room.

Mrs Hudson was in danger.

* * *

_**A/N: Okay, okay so sue me, I'll agree with anyone who says that they dislike this chapter. Originally it was never supposed to be a cliffie, but with the amount that I wanted to fit in for John, I felt that, in order to make things as good as they can be, I needed to separate this chapter into two, meaning that this one had to end on a cliff-hanger. Anyways, if anyone wants to rage on my face about this chapter, I'm okay with that as I'm really not happy with it at all (sorry :S). Also, feel free to point out any mistakes or bad grammar, I've been so overloaded with GCSEs at the moment that my editing is all over the place. HOWEVER! Fear not, as next chapter I fully intend to slap myself wholly around the face and try to write better XD The storyline kicks off well and truly next chapter as I've had to use these first two chapters as kinda-slow story-setting-up chapters, which I am not happy with, but you know :/ To make up for this, I'm gunna be posting the next chapter sooner, as an apology, so expect chapter 3 on Wednesday or Thursday! **_


	3. Return

_**A/N **_  
_**Okay, so I know that I said Wednesday and it's still technically Tuesday (late hours I know), however, I received a most wonderful review from theimprobableone, that made me laugh and it also contained the first suggestion for finding Sherlock of the Fanfiction! The review did also happen to request a Tuesday posting day instead of a Wednesday one and since the review made me smile so much, I have acted like a Genie of Arabia and have summoned it so! (Or pretty much worked through the night like an elf to do so XD)  
Anyway, thanks to everyone so very much for their reviews, alerts and favourites, you've made my week! Hope this chapter is okay and – oh! I almost forgot:**_

_**A WARNING: This chapter contains 2 medium-strong expletives, so if this offends you at all, please do accept my dearest apologies, they are used simply because of the character and the situation **_

_**Disclaimer: Today I went to search for Sherlock at the Diogenes club, expecting to find Mycroft and ask for him. A word of advice: NEVER EVER call the people in that place "old codgers". I am telling you this because a moment later I was arrested by two men in black suits from MI6 and am currently typing this from the back of a lorry. I have no idea where they are taking me or where my monkeys are, but I'm scared! Someone help me out of here!**_

* * *

John stood staring down the corridor. He had flown down the stairs, agony shooting up his leg but he'd ignored it, taking the steps two at a time. What if Mrs Hudson had been hurt? Things around here had been quiet since Sherlock had gone, too quiet, but if something happened and Sherlock wasn't around, it was up to John to have to defend Mrs Hudson. It was another reason why a job sounded unappetising; it meant leaving Mrs Hudson alone and after being in danger so many times before in 221B, the thought was unsettling, even with Sherlock and his cases gone.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he had almost crashed straight into Mrs Hudson, who had been backing away from the door, and she had given a cry, shocked.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, are you alright?" John said and he placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to each side a little to check for any injuries. She nodded and seemed to gather the will to speak in her shocked state. John could have almost smiled at that. Mrs Hudson didn't look like it but when it came down to it, the lady was someone who had nerves of steel and a caring attitude to go with it and if there had been any woman that Sherlock Holmes may have admired in his lifetime, it was Mrs Hudson. _And rightfully so to_, John thought.

"He's at the door," she managed and she put her hand to her mouth, the appendage shaking slightly. A mix of confusion at what had scared her so and fury, for the same reason, made him turn. And that was where he was still stood, frozen, a few long moments passing as he stared at the figure in the doorway. He took in the tall, lean stature, the curly hair and, in an instance, he knew who it was. Sherlock Holmes was stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street.

John stopped breathing for a moment and it felt like his brain had just stumbled over itself as the information tried to process itself. He couldn't move and he was certain that that would be his state for a considerable time; his brain was moving so slowly that he could barely think about breathing, much less speaking or moving. There was a long moment of silence. Sherlock, _it had to be him, it had to be, _looked to be processing things just as much as he was and not just in the usual deductive way. He seemed genuinely unable to think of what to say, looking like he had originally had something planned out to say and then thought better of it when he saw John's confused, shell shocked face.

John's mind seemed to have to almost reboot in an effort to make a move and getting his vocal chords to work over the noise suddenly clamouring in his head was a difficult task. _It couldn't be Sherlock. _The logical part of his brain was rebelling, telling him not to believe it but then backtracking as his eyes contradicted that. It _looked _like Sherlock. John knew what his flatmate looked like, he still remembered it as plain as day and it _felt _like Sherlock. John never believed in ghosts but there was always a _feel _to a person you knew well, like what people called "auras" or whatever. The way the figure stood, just looking at him felt like Sherlock's presence did; a confident, intelligent air with the hint of lively energy that made him so energetic and determined. In a way it _had _to be Sherlock, even though everything John knew went against the idea. He thought about what he had said at Sherlock's grave. _Just one more miracle. Don't be dead. Can you do that? Just for me? _There was only one person John knew that could pull a miracle like that off and if Sherlock were to do it for anyone, John could only wish that it would be for his "one" friend.

"Sherlock," he managed to gasp out and the spell seemed to break, shattered dizzyingly. The figure in the doorway seemed to sense the shift in his demeanour and stepped forward, shutting the door behind him, walking through the little passage. Although the sunlight from the doorway was no longer there, the figure got clearer as he walked closer and each step made John's confused brain spark with the impossibility of it. It _was _Sherlock. He stopped closely in front of him and even with the darker lighting, John took in the long coat, devoid of blood, the hair still curled and not soaked in red, albeit it was longer since the last time he had seen the detective. He looked thinner, his usually well-tailored shirt and trousers looking considerably looser and his face looked even more angular than normal, the evidence of sleeplessness in the purple smudges beneath his eyes. But even under all this, it was most definitely, undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello John."

It took only two words to snap John back into reality and he shut his mouth from where it had almost fallen open, forcing himself to look away from the other man and to look to Mrs Hudson. Two words had been all it took for everything to flood back and John had to keep the choked quality out of his voice. Sherlock probably didn't realise it, Sherlock being Sherlock he never would, but they were the exact mirror of the two words that had haunted John's dreams; the last words ever spoken by Sherlock Holmes. _Goodbye John. _Yet now, here he was and the only thing he seemed to have to say was "Hello John"? The idea made John's throat clench both from the memory and from anger that that was all sHerlock had to say to him after 3 months of being missing. _Of being dead, _John corrected himself.

"Mrs Hudson," John forced himself to say, "You've had quite the shock, are you alright?" _Am I? _He thought. He was concerned for Mrs Hudson; the shock alone of seeing someone "back from the dead" was dangerous to anyone and thinking about it, John could do with a good stiff drink himself, never mind Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson nodded, her face still a picture of shock and disbelief.

"Yes, I'm alright," she said, seeing that John wanted her to talk, just to make sure she was all right, "Is that really you?" She was addressing Sherlock and John swore he could see tears welling up in her eyes. Sherlock had been a friend to her too and, in a strange way, the pair of unusual lodgers had almost become like sons to her. She had missed Sherlock and John would even go as far to say that she would happily live with the mess and the noise and the danger for him to be back and now, here he was, like a ghost standing in front of them.

Sherlock nodded. "It's me, Mrs Hudson," he said and the voice sounded like it always had to Mrs Hudson, fond and betraying the fact that Sherlock really did care for Mrs Hudson, no matter what he said, "I'll happily explain it to you but I think it would be best if you were to make yourself a cup of tea first and sit down, John here looks like he is going to get upset with me if I give you any more of a scare." The familiar humour was there and John almost smiled.

"That's probably a good idea Mrs Hudson," John said and she nodded. She looked Sherlock up and down one final time and then, with what sounded like a small sob, she stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around him.

"Where have you been?" she said and she sounded almost on the edge of tears. The question was rhetorical and it seemed to hang in the air long after she had removed her arms from Sherlock and sniffed, turning to hurry off down the hallway to the kitchen, her hand going up to wipe her eyes. It was another thing John admired about Mrs Hudson. She may have been alone, especially after her husband died, but she was still strong and John knew that it would never do for her to let someone see her cry.  
John stood for a long moment after that, staring at Sherlock. He couldn't believe it. It was too impossible, he wanted to reach out and touch his arm, just to make sure he was real and it wasn't all just another dream.

"I am real John," Sherlock said, apparently catching onto John's disbelief. John felt like raising an eyebrow at that. If he was in a dream, that is exactly what his mind would tell him. Sherlock rocked back on his heels a little, waiting a moment before he shrugged.

"I expect I have some explaining to do," he said and then, a moment later, he gestured to the stairs, "I think you should probably sit down." It was a pretentious statement, implying that Sherlock knew his story would be so utterly unbelievable that John would need a seat and that he expected John to simply listen to him like they were simply on a case or talking about John's blog, even after he had been dead for 3 whole months.

Yet, Sherlock's eye flitted to John's leg for a mere second and John almost beamed as he realised that not only had Sherlock's deductive ability not faded or his knowledge of John and he had recognised the pain in his leg that was making John lean slightly, but it also betrayed his concern for John and the strain on his leg. John felt the corners of his mouth twitch and for the first time he in three months he felt like genuinely laughing and he barely managed to keep in a fit of giggles, the relief was so huge. It was like a weight, suddenly lifted from his shoulders and the world seemed so much bigger now, somehow and even better because his best friend was, as if by magic, back in it once again. He remembered the time on their first case when he had laughed with Sherlock here in the hallway, relieved to have got away with chasing down and stopping a taxi car in some insane fashion and something close to sheer joy washed over him. His best friend was back.

The thought spurred him on and through the confusion, shock, frustration, anger, joy and the million other emotions John was feeling, he somehow managed to follow as Sherlock Holmes climbed the stairs up to 221B.

* * *

John sat down, handing Sherlock the cup of tea. It felt strange doing something so normal again, something that three months ago he would have thought nothing of; giving Sherlock a cup of tea because he wasn't drinking anything _again _and Sherlock half-heartedly taking it. It felt so routine, so ordinary and yet it felt like he hadn't done it in years, not just months. Sherlock looked at the tea with distain, as he always looked at any food or drink, but John ignored it. Personally, he would have preferred something stronger, a _lot _stronger since he was pretty sure he was already hallucinating and it couldn't get any worse unless pink elephants turned up but since he hadn't allowed himself to have any form of alcohol in the flat since the incident, for fear of turning to dink like his sister, tea was as good as it was going to get.

Sherlock had looked around the room as he had sat down, surveying the half boxed-up state. Everything was familiar and apart from some of his possessions having been jumbled around, never quite making it into boxes, nothing had changed. The kitchen was cleaner, no doubt Mrs Hudson had something to do with that, but John looked to have substituted chemistry equipment with boxes and piles of unwashed tea cups. Sherlock smiled as his eyes took in the mess, his brain deducing details of John's life for the past few months, the lonely existence, the repetition in the packing and unpacking, the tea making. He took in the cane resting on the armchair and knew that his suspicions about John's leg were right and he tried not to feel guilty about that, trying hard to focus on how good it was to be deducing about his flatmate once again, the strange familiarity of it where he felt comfortable deducing about John, it was easy but there was always a strange satisfaction in revealing to John about what he knew. He was desperate to reel it off to John, the chance to show off after so long was incredibly tempting but he tried to ignore it, knowing that John was still struggling to process his sudden appearance. He watched the ex-army doctor as he lowered himself into his chair.

John's hand was shaking a little as he settled the tea down on the table and looked at the cereal bowl he had dropped on the floor earlier. It was a mess and probably dangerous but he thought that cleaning it up now seemed like a ridiculous idea, so he diverted his attention to look back at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently. Just the sight of his best friend was comforting enough and for a moment he wondered if he even cared about the answers Sherlock would be giving him, whether he should just be happy that his flatmate was back and that was all but there was a churning in his stomach, compelling him to ask. He was angry. For the first time in ages, he was angry again, even underneath the relief and happiness, there was a bubbling, boiling anger in his gut. Sherlock was alive and he here he was, pretending as if it was nothing, after letting him believe he was death for three months. John didn't know or care how justified it was to be angry at him but he was, the familiar roiling anger that had settled in the days after Sherlock had gone.

"Why?" he said. Sherlock looked as if he had been about to say something but at John's question, he stopped, tilting his head and frowning.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Why?" John repeated. Sherlock gave him a look as if the question was the most bizarre thing anyone had ever uttered.

"John, out of all the questions you could ask-" Sherlock cut himself off with a smirk, "Aren't you going to ask how? Or where I've been? They do seem the more important questions if you-"

"I want to know why," John said and he looked straight at Sherlock, meeting his eyes and not dropping the gaze. There was a choked, desperate quality to his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. The churning in his stomach was pressing him forward, he _had _to know. "I want to know why you did it. Sherlock, I know you're not a fraud, the fact that you're here, now, that's proof-"

John's voice cracked a little and he had to stop, clearing his throat. Sherlock had performed a miracle to get back here and John didn't think he could stand to hear Sherlock say that what he had said on the roof was true, not after all this.

"I need to know why you said those things about you being a- a fake, Sherlock," John said, his voice shaking but relatively under control, "Why you… jumped. Why didn't you tell me you were alive? I spent the past three months thinking you were dead Sherlock! Why the hell didn't you tell me? I'm your bloody friend and you didn't even bother to tell me!" John's voice shook a little more with anger as he finished, his hands matching the shaking in his voice. The frustration and confusing settled on his chest was threatening to break free and he felt like screaming.

Sherlock was silent. John kept eye contact but it was harder than it usually was or at least, as it used to be. Something in Sherlock's eyes was reserved, holding back like he was locking part of himself away behind his eyes.

"I couldn't," Sherlock finally said. John waited for something to follow it and, when nothing did, he gave a huff of laughter.

"You couldn't what? You couldn't tell your best friend you were alive? You couldn't just come and see me or call me or even send me a goddamn text? I thought I had buried you! For God's sake Sherlock, do you even know what that's like to have to _bury _your friend?" Sherlock shook his head slowly but kept his eyes on John, like he was placating him, watching his every move for any sign that he was going to lash out or let go of his temper.

"You're going to have to do a little better than "I couldn't", Sherlock," John said. Sherlock sighed. He knew that he had more explaining to do than he thought John could take in his current state and he was tempted to recommend that John rested before he told him. In any normal circumstance, he would have done, however the situation was anything but normal. He had run over this scenario so many times in his head that he was sure that he had accounted for every outcome, however, John being John, had asked the only question he hadn't been prepared for.

How was he supposed to answer him without saying what really happened on that roof? It wasn't that John was in danger anymore, he had shut down Moriarty's operatives during his three months of absence, searching out the snipers that had been under Moriarty's control, however he saw no way that he could tell John why he had done what he had done when he didn't understand it fully himself. He had beaten Moriarty, not in the way he had hoped, and yet he couldn't understand what exactly had happened on that day. It had been sentiment, not logic or mind games that had toppled the great Sherlock Holmes from his pedestal. The so-called heartless Sherlock Holmes had cared perhaps too much and had literally taken a fall for it and that was something that Sherlock could barely understand, much less describe. And yet, in order to answer John's question, he would have to tell him that everything he had said on his "note" had been lies. He would have to tell him that he hadn't told him he was still alive for fear of any of the snipers he was chasing down got to him. He would have to tell him that he faked his death in order to save John's life, to save Lestrade's life and Mrs Hudson and the people who somehow cared about him despite how "friendless" he had always been.

"I couldn't tell you I was still alive because it was too dangerous John," he began and he sighed, knowing that it would be a long, difficult explanation; one that John would no doubt have questions about that Sherlock couldn't answer, "In order to defeat Moriarty I had to fake my own death"

"Moriarty?" John interjected. Sherlock frowned.

"Yes," he said.

"Not Richard Brook?" John's voice was full of relief and for the first time since Sherlock had seen him, his flatmate grinned, "I knew it. I knew it wasn't true. Moriarty _was _real; I knew you hadn't created him!" Sherlock almost smiled at John's exuberance and he felt an odd feeling not dissimilar to pride sweep him. Even after he had told John that he had lied to him, even when he had practically begged John to believe it was all fake, John had kept his undying faith, even when no-one else had.

Sherlock nodded. "I had to tell you that it was all a lie, to get the world to believe it. The only way to foil Moriarty's plan was to go along with it, I'm afraid telling you that was necessary," he explained. It wasn't fully a lie. By telling John what he had, he had saved John's life and therefore stopped Moriarty's final plan but Sherlock could see that John wasn't buying it completely. John knew that Sherlock was skirting around the question, telling him only tiny scraps of information and Sherlock could see that that hurt him. It was as if the only way Sherlock could ever protect his friends was by hurting them.

"So… you went along with his plan, made people believe you were a fake but… how did that stop Moriarty? And where is he now? If you stopped his plan then why did you fake your death, I don't understand," John asked. Sherlock knew that John could see the visible cracks in Sherlock's story and Sherlock made a mental note to never teach John to question witnesses as he seemed to have an unnerving knack for it.

"Moriarty wanted to see me destroyed," Sherlock said, "First my reputation and then me, hence the jump, all alluding to the "Reichenbach hero", remember, the "fall" he owed me? Giving him what he wanted, including faking my death, was the only way to get out of it, to fool both him and any cohorts he had. Unfortunately however, I regret to say that it didn't go exactly to plan. Jim and I had a scuffle and- he fired a gun at me and I was forced to fight him. There was a misfire from a gun that – killed him" Sherlock tried to keep the pauses from entering in but lying so blatantly was difficult with John's sceptical eyes looking critically at him, analysing the statement. He quickly moved on, covering his tracks. "Anyway, I knew this would anger any followers he had, therefore I followed through with my plan and faked my death, meaning that any followers did not come after me," Sherlock said.

John sat, listening. A part of him wanted to believe Sherlock, to not care about the slight pauses in the words or how Sherlock struggled now to meet his eye. The explanation seemed to fit but it was disjointed, strange for someone as usually elegant as Sherlock.

"You couldn't have told me?" he said, "You couldn't have just let me know what you planned on doing, that you were alive?" His anger hadn't died down and the idea of Sherlock lying to him only made it worse.

"It was too dangerous; it was possible that they might have come after you if not me. It was for your own safety," Sherlock said.

John gaped at him. "Too dangerous? After all the cases we've been on- Sherlock, I can't believe you would just- I deserved to know that my best friend hadn't in fact committed suicide in front of my eyes! I believed in you, I told everyone who would listen that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a liar and you can't even trust me enough to let me help you?" His anger peaked and John could barely stop his voice from shouting.

"You don't understand," Sherlock said, "John, it's complicated and-"

John didn't even remember standing but he was on his feet in flash and he heard his cup of tea clatter on its side as he slammed his hand on the table as he stood, the loud slam reverberating around the room.

"You selfish bastard!" he yelled and now he didn't even care if he was yelling, his blood was boiling and he could barely see through the veil of fury. It was like the months of grief had finally settled and the single thought of Sherlock not being able to trust him, after everything they had done made him flare up in anger. Sherlock looked up at him in shock.

"What?"

"You heard me!" John shouted, "You're a goddamn selfish idiot! You don't think I would have helped even if there was danger? I've done it before Sherlock, but oh no, you don't trust me enough to think that I'd want to help you when you needed it? Do you think it's been easy for me? I thought you were dead Sherlock! I buried an empty coffin, I've been to goddamn therapy!" His voice had risen to almost screaming and he kicked the table, the pain and stress and anguish of everything rushing up to meet him.

He spun around, turning his back to Sherlock and ran a hand through his hair. It was cut shorter than he usually liked it; he had cut it like that two months after Sherlock's "death", back to a short, military style, something familiar and regimental. He sighed and gathered himself, hands still shaking and he could feel his leg pounding pain up and through him sharply. He took another few deep breaths, slowly moving round to look at his friend again. He took in his friend's face in detail, seeing the purple bags beneath his eyes, the shuttered look and abnormally pale pallor. He looked almost ill if you looked at him close enough and John could see that, sat down, the weight loss was even more obvious. It seemed to click into place and John felt a soft swell of guilt. Looking in the mirror he would no doubt see the purple lining his own eyes from the nightmares plaguing his nights and he already knew that he looked rough from lack of sleep. Sherlock didn't just look as if he had spent three months mourning, he looked worse. One look at his friend and John knew for a fact that he didn't need to tell Sherlock what he had been through because, evidently, it hadn't been easy for Sherlock either.

He hefted a long, deep breath and nodded, as if agreeing to an unspoken question. "I'm sorry," he said, "I just-" He paused and gave a small laugh. "I guess I'm just glad you're not dead." Sherlock looked at him, as if surprised both by John's outburst and by his forgiveness and unexpected apology. Then, the surprise seemed to fade and Sherlock allowed himself to chuckle, joining John's laughter. It felt good, the mundane quality to something as simple as laughing was something Sherlock had never seen the value of and it was perhaps one of the reasons Sherlock liked living with his flatmate so much. The experiences John saw as so normal and every day was always boring and pointless to Sherlock, yet somehow John managed to integrate them with the way they both lived and in a way, it worked.

John's smile didn't fade even as he sighed and said, "So, go on then." Sherlock grinned, making John roll his eyes. Even that action made John's smile widen. He never thought he would miss being exasperated at Sherlock but every familiar emotion was like saying hello to his friend once again.

"How did you do it?" John said.

"Oh so _now _you want to know?"

"Sherlock, get on with it," John sighed, knowing that if Sherlock hadn't removed his coat upon entry, he would be turning up the collar by now.

"You see," said Sherlock mysteriously, "I never died." John let the silence hand unimpressively for a moment before he responded.

"I kind of got that part Sherlock," John retorted dryly.

"Ah, as usual John you are seeing but not observing," Sherlock scolded and John raised an eyebrow at the familiar taunt.

"If you're going to treat your faked death as a case, I _will _hit you," John warned.

"I don't doubt it. It is rather ingenious John, I think you'll like it," Sherlock said, the familiar boastful tone creeping in to his voice. The idea of hearing how Sherlock had created one of the worst moments of John's life didn't sound something he would like and he barely listened as Sherlock began to tell him how he had faked his death.

John caught snatches of the explanation, things about the homeless network and bicycles and Molly and John suddenly realised why Molly had identified the body herself. She had known all along that Sherlock was alive and hadn't told him. For a moment John had felt furious at her but it died down as he heard how Sherlock had made her promise to not tell another soul. The idea of having to keep that kind of secret made John pity her, the thought of such a burden pressing down on her made him feel guilty for getting angry at her.

The rest of the explanation however was drowned out by his thoughts and he let Sherlock's voice wash over him without focusing on it. It felt like old times, like sitting in his chair typing up their latest case, Sherlock reeling off an explanation as to why a stained glass window proved a person's innocence or why a garden gnome was the murder weapon. Sherlock was back and that was all that mattered. He wondered vaguely if Mycroft or Lestrade had known, like Molly and the thought of Mycroft's co-operation with Moriarty came to mind. He deliberated if he should tell Sherlock or not, if the moment was too perfect to ruin and if Sherlock knew or not. _Don't tell him, _he told himself. It wasn't his business to rat on Mycroft, it was up to Mycroft to admit it himself and take the consequences for it. He wondered if Mycroft hadn't called because he already knew about Sherlock. Maybe Lestrade had as well but that seemed unlikely, that the only person who hadn't known would be Sherlock's flatmate and best friend. He had needed Molly to make his "death" work and that was the only reason why she knew. It didn't make sense for anyone else to know.

"John, are you listening?" Sherlock said suddenly, louder, cutting through John's thoughts. John snapped back into reality and blinked at Sherlock, who was giving him a disapproving look, looking hurt that John had only been half listening to his gloating.

"Yeah," John said. _Sort of. _In all honesty, he was just glad to be hearing Sherlock's voice again, never mind what it was saying. Sherlock tutted, obviously knowing it was a lie. Sherlock's eyes scouted around, displeased with John's lack of focus and he latched onto his violin, right where John had placed it beside Sherlock's chair, afraid to move it in case his miracle had come true. The idea that it still seemed unreal and John prayed that it wasn't all one big, cruel dream. He watched Sherlock pick up the violin, long fingers dancing delicately on the strings, gently folding around the polished wood so carefully that John barely supressed a laugh. Sherlock loved that violin more than it was really healthy to, even after being away from it.

"Do you want a moment alone with her?" John teased. Sherlock glared at him and stood, swiping up his bow and then with a few swift actions, rubbed it lovingly along the strings a few times in a short, cheerful tune.

John smiled at that but Sherlock's standing position afforded him a sidelong long at Sherlock's worryingly thin frame.

"We should go out for a Chinese or something," John suggested, covering his concern and instinct to feed the stubborn detective with a nonchalant idea, "To celebrate". Sherlock shot him a small smile that told him Sherlock knew what he was trying to do but couldn't be bothered pointing it out.

"Sure," he said, "Tomorrow night. It's been quite the long day today." John saw the deflection of food for what it was but couldn't help but agree. He settled into the chair, rubbing his leg. He knew that he would have to clean up the cereal bowl on the floor at some point, feed Sherlock somehow, go check Mrs Hudson and maybe even call around people and inform them about Sherlock, but all of that could wait. For now, John Watson was perfectly happily to just sit, listening to his friend playing his violin and vaguely make the decision to begin unpacking Sherlock's things back into the flat as soon as possible. The sound of Sherlock's violin drifted around the flat and John closed his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was back home.

* * *

_**A/N **_

_**So, how was that chapter guys? As ever, my sincerest apologies for all spelling mistakes, grammar, missing word and cheesiness issues in here, I know GSCE exams are no excuse but I do have a lot of them so my editing is non existent due to lack of time :S  
I had so much I wanted to put in this chapter, I feel like I could easily have made it twice as long with all the feels I wanted to put in XD I originally was going to have John punch Sherlock like I always hope he will, however when you stop to study John's character I always draw the conclusion that he would have shock, then anger, which would dampen the anger enough to stop him from physically attacking Sherlock :D Anyways, if anyone disagrees or has any more points, feel free to say! Also, did everyone like how I dodged around saying how he got out of the fall? Lol, there are so many different theories I didn't want to take sides with anyone or make it too objective so I left it up to you guys to fill in ;P**_

_**Anyway, reviews are always appreciated and much, much, much loved. Also, just as a side note, who else is loving the new design of the review button? It's so nice and bright and it's all good :) Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next one is out on Sunday, thanks again for reading!**_


	4. Talk

_**A/N: I'm so sorry this is late! Here we are again with me being late, this week's gone really fast has it not? Mine has anyway, I've had loads of final exams and such, which between those and a sleepover on Saturday are the reasons why this chapter is late :S I'm sorry :'( **_

_**Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, you made my week! (You always do XD) You're all amazing :)  
To theimprobableone, thanks for the review since I can't reply to you other than here :D I thought that 3 months was better than three years as I wanted the time frame to be shorter… and plus I don't think I could stand it being the whole three years! XD I agree with both those details by the way, but I thought adding my own opinion into the writing may be bad since I know lots of people think different things and I didn't want to be controversial XD Heehee, sorry, I'm bad enough keeping to schedule (as evident here) never mind being early XD I'm such a terrible person :D  
Disclaimer: I have escaped from the truck! With just a hairclip and a stash of TNT hidden in my jacket pockets, I escaped the vehicle and am currently stranded in a field somewhere, although I don't know where. I'm currently sleeping in a tree, trying to get signal and have decided to build my own satellite in order to get mobile phone service! **_

* * *

John barely remembered moving into his room yesterday after falling asleep on the chair. He vaguely remembered a muffled goodnight to Sherlock, who was still playing his violin and shuffling into his room. It was as if all of the sleepless nights had caught up with him at once and he had crashed, desperately needing sleep. However, his mind didn't completely settle as he remembered panicking for a moment, wondering what he would do if he awoke and Sherlock wasn't there, like a dream that ended all too soon. He could hear Sherlock playing violin in the living room and although it paused for a moment, as if in consideration, it had continued playing and John could swear it was slightly louder, reassuring him that Sherlock was still there, the impossible notion of his friend assuring his tired blogger of his presence made John smile and he flopped into bed, leaving his door open to hear the music.

After that, it hadn't taken long for sleep to come over him, listening to a vaguely lullaby tune from Sherlock's violin, a sound he remembered he had both been woken up by and fallen asleep to before. He didn't remember his dream or if he even had one at all and now, as the morning sunshine come in through the gap in his curtains, he realised that this was the first time since Sherlock had disappeared that he had slept for so long and so peacefully. _Relief: Earth's natural sleeping medication, _John thought. He pulled his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, rubbing his sore thigh. It still hurt, no less than it did yesterday but it didn't seem quite as important anymore. He'd deal with the pain in his leg since there was no longer the aching pain in his chest anymore; there wasn't the constant thought of "alone" in his head. He got up and scavenged in his wardrobe for some clothes, padding out into the living room barefoot after he had changed.

When he got into the living room, he spotted Sherlock, stood watching the television. John felt himself relax in relief. Yesterday hadn't been a dream, Sherlock was still alive. John wanted to say that he looked the same as he always did, but that wouldn't be entirely true as the night hadn't worn away at the tired, battered look on Sherlock's face and John could see straight away that Sherlock hadn't slept that night. His clothes were the same since yesterday, rumpled under where Sherlock had slung on a familiar silk dressing gown and John had to ponder if Sherlock had tried to get to sleep at all and had failed to or if he had stayed here all night, playing his violin, driving Mrs Hudson crazy like always and watching TV. John guessed that it was the latter as Sherlock looked like he hadn't slept in days and the bags under his eyes were more noticeable today than they were yesterday.

Sherlock's attention was fixed on the news at the moment and he looked more attentive to it than he ever did, his eyes locked on the screen when usually they were fixed on his laptop and flung its way casually every few moments when the promise of a case appeared. Sherlock was stood too instead of crouched on his favourite chair and John drew his own attention to the screen, seeing what Sherlock was finding so engrossing.

The news report was similar to the one John had watched yesterday and Sherlock looked almost to be analysing it, the expression he always had when he was deducing was locked onto his face and John could almost hear his mind whirring from here.

"The post-mortem was held before a private funeral ceremony in which none of the names of attendants were released. Thus far there has been speculation that members of Scotland Yard turned up for the ceremony, leading to suspicions that the internal inquiry may have been led by such individuals in an attempt to clear Mr Holmes's name," the newsreader said, "So far their efforts have proved successful as yesterday new evidence came to light that Mr Holmes may have been involved in an elaborate scheme-"

John saw Sherlock's interest shut off and he guessed that he had seen everything he had too. John had seen only one other expression cross Sherlock's face, so whatever information Sherlock had garnered wasn't easy for John to decipher, as the only change in Sherlock's expression had been surprise at the mention of the "private funeral ceremony" and the speculation on attendees. It was true that some members of Scotland Yard had turned up, Lestrade being the first one to arrive, followed by two obscure officers that John had never seen and then, shockingly, Donovan and Anderson, obviously there on either Lestrade's orders or on guilt. Anderson had a look of disgust on his face, leaving ten minutes before the service began but Donovan had stayed for a short time after that and if John didn't know better, aside from the gloating aura about her, she did seem ever so slightly remorseful at Sherlock's death. Donovan was an idiot by all standards and she had blamed Sherlock for reasons John couldn't guess at, but she was also a police officer and ultimately, she had good intentions. That didn't stop John from shooting her a hateful glare but he didn't say anything, not that he could have anyway, he had barely spoken all day.

Sherlock had seemed surprised at the idea that anyone had bothered to turn up for his funeral and John's mood sank a little. _The most human human being I've ever known. _It was true that Sherlock could be cruel sometimes, with a complete disregard for anyone's feelings, John knew that first-hand, but he also knew that out of everything Sherlock could have done with his mind, he had chosen to help people. He had chosen to do good and although not many people got to see that side of Sherlock, whether because they couldn't or because they simply didn't want to, there were some people that were willing to believe that there was more than just the arrogance and the insults. It was after all, what they had all stuck around for.

Mrs Hudson had seen that Sherlock was a good man when he had helped her with her husband and ever since allowed himself to be mothered by her with as minimal amounts of complaining as he could muster. Molly had seen something perhaps none of them had yet, something she had loved and followed, even when everyone else said it was pointless. Lestrade had seen it, or at least, he was hoping to, he had said it himself that he was waiting for the day when he could say that Sherlock Holmes was a "good man". And John didn't know quite what he had seen when with Sherlock Holmes but what he _did _know was that it was something that made Sherlock Holmes who he was. Not just a hero or a detective or an idiot sometimes or a genius or an arrogant prick or a friend; it was something within that and between that and inside all of those things that defined Sherlock Holmes not just a great man, but a good one too; yet seeing this from all the little snapshots of Sherlock that people could see made it difficult to see the whole picture, the whole of who Sherlock Holmes really was. John was sure that he had yet to see all of who Sherlock Holmes and yet, that was the whole point. If it meant only catching snatches of Sherlock being a hero or a friend or a genius in order to see that there was more to him than meets them all, then there were people like himself, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson who would all wait to see those glimpses.

"John if you are making an attempt at deduction, I think I should remind you of Carl Power's shoe and advise you not to try it again. I think that just once is sufficiently embarrassing enough for you," Sherlock said suddenly. John jumped, flicking his attention back from the TV, noticing Sherlock's eyes on him. It took him a second to process what Sherlock had said and he scowled.

"You were the one that old me to do it in the first place," he growled, pretending to be angry however, as much as he never thought he would say it, he had missed Sherlock's insults and dry humour too much to be too angry about it. Sherlock shot him a grin and walked over the coffee table and chair to grab his laptop from the side where John had put it a few weeks ago when he had been unsure of what to do with it.

Sherlock climbed back over the chair and coffee table again to sit at the table, opening his laptop as he did so.

"I assume you've seen the news?" Sherlock said, "New evidence revealing that Moriarty was real all along"

"Yeah, it was on yesterday," John said, wandering into the kitchen, "Do you want a cuppa? I'm making some breakfast too if you want some." Sherlock shot him a look that clearly read "Sherlock Holmes doesn't need to eat", before he returned to tapping away on his laptop. John rolled his eyes but a pang of worry shot through him. Just how long had it been since Sherlock last ate something? He could barely imagine Sherlock getting food for himself while he had been away; doing whatever it was he had been doing for the past three months. That thought unnerved John; the idea that he didn't know where Sherlock had actually been for the past three months. Sherlock hadn't said yesterday where he had been and John's curiosity was piqued, as well as a growing concern for the state of the already thin detective.

"It's good isn't it? I mean, getting your name clear is good news right? Now Moriarty's gone there's no-one to refute it, you'll be in the clear," John said from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of the kettle boiling. He didn't turn to look at Sherlock's face from where he was stood but he could practically feel the intensity of how concentrated Sherlock was on his computer screen.

"Mm," Sherlock gave a vague, non-committal sound of agreement but John could tell he wasn't really listening. It took a few more seconds for Sherlock to seemingly listen to what John had said and pull it through his brain, drawn out of his deep thoughts on the news report lighting up his computer screen. "I don't doubt it's useful to me John, the question is, _what _new evidence? In fact, there is more than just one question here. Who led the investigation and why? It doesn't make complete sense that the police would look into my suicide-"

"Faked death," John corrected.

"A technicality," Sherlock said, obviously arguing the point that suicide sounded better, "My point is that there are things missing from the puzzle John, things that are being kept secret. I fully intend to find out what."

John raised an eyebrow. A day back at 221B and Sherlock was already back to a case.

"So what, you think something fishy is going on? It's weird that someone in Scotland Yard would want to clear your name? What about Lestrade? He's been pretty quiet lately, maybe he's been on this investigation thing," John suggested. Sherlock shook his head.

"It's not just about wanting to clear my name John, it's about someone stopping to think that maybe I wasn't dead, then taking it to the top to begin a private investigation into it, then to actually _find _the evidence that would clear my name – it seems an awful lot of trouble even for a D.I like Lestrade," Sherlock said. Now that Sherlock put it that way, it did seem a little odd. The very same day Sherlock had returned, his name was cleared after months of investigation into a man that had been publically shamed? Sherlock wasn't wrong about it being off.

"Who do you think it is?" John said, "Who would go to all that trouble to clear your name?" He paused a moment. "You don't think Mycroft has anything to do with it do you?" John heard Sherlock chuckle and he looked over at him, seeing Sherlock smiling. It was a small smile, one that made his thinned out face look even bonier and John decided that not only was he going to make Sherlock breakfast, he was going to make sure that he damn well ate it.

"John, my brother may be defensive of me but if there is anything that Mycroft cares very little about, it is public image. He likes to keep the world turning and the Times stocked with news, I don't think Mycroft would be scrambling to stop the presses on my defamation," Sherlock sneered and John didn't miss the familiar resentment in there, however it seemed more biting than usual, "I believe my brother would however be concerned for my wellbeing and whereabouts so I suspect he's spent his time making absolutely sure that I am in fact dead, since I doubt my brother believes everything that he reads in the paper. However, after all, I am the only person ever to have been able to fool my brother."

John remembered Mycroft saying something on similar lines to that and he made sure to keep his expression hidden from Sherlock as he felt anger boil in him. Mycroft had been the only person John had expected at the funeral that had _not _come. In fact, John hadn't seen Mycroft at all since his betrayal and that thought alone made his blood boil, imagining Mycroft realising what his betrayals had done to his brother and then crawling back into his lair like a snake and leaving John with the fallout. If anyone other than Moriarty held the blame for Sherlock's fall, it was Mycroft and nothing anyone could say would convince John from that.

There were a few companiable minutes of silence after that and John cracked on with the breakfast, content to have his mind focused on something less irritating than thoughts of Sherlock's brother. John was quite happy to be cooking breakfast for someone other than himself, even though he was dreading trying to make Sherlock eat it. In fact, he was happy to be doing anything at all other than sitting in the flat, doing nothing like he had been doing. He had missed the job interview, of course, but that fact had faded into the background after yesterday's event. With actual motivation to keep the flat and thereby get a job, John reckoned he could get a job, even something small, with his qualifications. Right now he was happy to just enjoy the moment.

However, enjoying the moment didn't quite stretch far enough to stop him from thinking over what Sherlock had said earlier. Secrets were being kept from them and as true as that was, John felt as if he had been kept in the dark more than anyone else. No-one had spoken to him during Sherlock's absence, Sherlock hadn't told him he was alive, the police hadn't told him about the investigation and now, above all, Sherlock was keeping more secrets from him. No matter how much Sherlock dodged the questions, John was still suspicious of his story. Where had he been and what the hell had he been doing for 3 whole months? What had he discovered about Moriarty's plan that had made him want to fake his own death? It didn't add up, none of it did and he couldn't get the suspicious feeling out of his head. _Find it out yourself, _he thought. He knew that if Sherlock didn't tell him, there was always the chance that he could find out himself, he'd followed Sherlock Holmes around enough to know a few detective tricks or two. The trail would be cold now but if John couldn't learn anything from Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest detective, about picking up a trail, then he didn't know who he could learn from.

The world's greatest detective however, as John rediscovered, was also a pain in the backside by all accounts as when John finally triumphed over the breakfast (two burnt sausages, a dropped egg and the disposal of a suspiciously mouldy looking rasher of bacon later – cooking was something the army taught you but didn't necessarily specify that you had to make a good full English) and placed a large plate in front of Sherlock, the detective gave it a look that looked like he half expected it to jump off the plate and eat him instead.

"Come on Sherlock, I've not just spent like an hour in the kitchen for you not to eat it," John said.

"36 minutes to be precise John, an hour is a slight over-exaggeration," Sherlock corrected him.

"You were counting?" John exclaimed. Sherlock gave him a withering look.

"There is a clock on the laptop screen, I looked at that," Sherlock said dryly and John scowled at him.

"You're probably one of the only people I know that can be irritating this early in the morning," John sighed.

"I'm not irritating," Sherlock argued but him poking at the food with the fork didn't help his case and John sighed louder, sitting down next to him and proceeding to tuck into his own meal, watching Sherlock very closely, observing how engrossed he was in the news story and taking some comfort in that here, doing what he did best, he looked exactly like he used to, focused, absorbed and still a little annoying.

Every once in a while John would prompt Sherlock to start eating his breakfast and each time he got waved off with a maddening flick of Sherlock's hand. It didn't help when Mrs Hudson came up, fussing and generally paying as much to attention to Sherlock as possible. John didn't usually think of his friend as a grouchy person in the mornings, bar a few days, but when he was on a case, or was beginning to think he was going to be on a case, he was rude at best and he made no effort to partake in Mrs Hudson's conversation, forcing John to fill in for him. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to mind and, much to John's pride, he gave Sherlock a sterner telling off about his eating habits than John would have done and John smiled behind his jumper sleeve and fork, hiding his amused expression until she left.

"Well, Mrs Hudson definitely seems to be happier about having you around the flat Sherlock," John grinned and Sherlock gave absent minded nod at him and John scowled. He hadn't expected everything to be sunshine and daisies once Sherlock had returned, far from it, but it still stung that despite how much John had grieved for Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes would always be just Sherlock Holmes and John knew better than to expect any form of apology from him, in fact, to expect anything else than the usual nonchalant demeanour that Sherlock always had. However, Sherlock seemed even more distant than usual and for a moment John wondered vaguely if he had done something wrong. He tried to shrug it off and not to let it get to him but even though he'd expected things to be a little different before things settled down, it was shakier than he'd expected.

Just as John was about to give a sharp retort to Sherlock's uninterested nod, John heard the door go downstairs and he narrowed his eyes in its general direction, annoyed that his perfectly good comeback had been ruined. He heard Mrs Hudson go to open it and he stopped eating, toying around with a scrap of bacon as he listened. He couldn't hear the conversation, but he heard Mrs Hudson saying something along the lines of "He's upstairs" and John tensed. He knew he was being illogical, that after three months of Moriarty being gone that he would still expect someone to be coming to take Sherlock again but he couldn't stop his muscles from coiling in readiness and he looked round to the open door to the stairs. He heard Sherlock stop typing next to him and was surprised to feel him tense also, waiting. He shot a glance at him and Sherlock looked almost grateful that John had been so ready to leap to his defence.

"You expecting anyone?" John said, trying for a casual tone. Sherlock gave a small smile but shook his head and stood up, shortly followed by John who had to use the table to ease himself up, his leg still stiff from a night of sleep. He heard a thank you from downstairs, too muffled to detect who it was and then footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock let out a low groan from next to him and John looked, concern sweeping his expression.

"I wouldn't bother standing up if I were you John," Sherlock said and John immediately knew that whoever it was, Sherlock had recognised their step, deducing who they were with ease, "His Royal Highness only needs people to stand for him on formal occasions". John frowned, perplexed and then he turned his head to where the footsteps had stopped. There in the doorway, stock still and umbrella in hand, was Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft didn't move from the doorway and if he heard Sherlock's jibe, he didn't react to it. He simply stood there, his hand clutching his umbrella, staring at his younger brother. Sherlock, for his part, stayed seating and, even though he hadn't seen his brother in three months, he didn't greet him or even look at him for that matter, merely typed away on his laptop coolly.

"Mycroft," John said finally, "What are you doing here?" He tried to keep the anger from his voice but it took more effort than he thought it would and he was pretty sure that Mycroft noticed it. John could barely believe that Mycroft had the nerve to walk in here. After what he had done. He'd betrayed Sherlock and now he expected to be forgiven? John didn't know how much Sherlock knew and that was the only thing that was stopping John from punching Mycroft straight in the face, but John was livid at the sheer gall of it. Mycroft had admitted betraying Sherlock to _Moriarty _of all people, he had basically set up his own brother's death if Sherlock had not escaped and he sauntered in, goddamn umbrella in hand like none of that mattered?

Mycroft didn't answer for a long while, continuing to stare at his brother, his face a half mix between shock and calculation.

"Mycroft!" John barely kept his voice from a shout and Mycroft's frozen state seemed to shift.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said simply, "How-"

"Ah, see John! Someone who asks _how_ you see! Granted, it's only Mycroft, however," Sherlock said suddenly and he turned to smile at John who raised an eyebrow, strongly resisting the urge to yell at the older Holmes. Mycroft took a step forward, peering at Sherlock in that same only-a-Holmes way that Sherlock sometimes did when he was deducing, like Mycroft was checking it was him and not some man in a mask or a puppet or something equally as plausible as his brother coming back from the dead.

Suddenly, Mycroft seemed to come to his senses and he looked away, nodding at John.

"Doctor Watson," he greeted, "You're looking a little… tired, I'm sorry I couldn't give you any assistance during my brother's… absence… I was looking for him you see, I thought it was best I didn't spread… false hope." The last words were spoken with more poignancy, even with each word being spoken with great care, Mycroft glaring at his brother. _False hope. _It coalesced to John that Mycroft certainly had believed his brother to be dead. _Good, _John thought, _I hope you felt as guilty as hell and twice as responsible. _John gritted his teeth.

"Mycroft. You're looking… perfectly well, to say your brother has been missing for over three months," John ground out, his hands balling into tight fists. Mycroft looked as well kept as he ever did, his face no more tired looking than usual, his clothes still perfectly pressed and dry cleaned. Mycroft Holmes. So perfectly well presented that he couldn't let a hair fall out of line for his brother. John's blood boiled. After everything Mycroft had promised to do, after everything the two Holmes had done, he had betrayed his little brother. And John could never understand it.

Mycroft's jaw tightened a little and he gave a small, twisted facial expression that showed his discomfort, making Sherlock smirk.

"If you're here to talk to me about Moriarty, Mycroft, he's gone I'm afraid, as you'll probably know. There's nothing I can do for you," Sherlock said, "You've read the papers, made your deductions. That should leave you with no further questions other than-"

"You've been alive all this time and you didn't come to me with it?" Mycroft said, his voice unnervingly calm. Sherlock met his eyes and for a moment John was sure that the air between them was going to set on fire. Mycroft's gaze was holding firm, a barely restricted fury behind it, whereas Sherlock's own gaze boiled with challenge and petulance. John almost snorted at Mycroft's statement. Sherlock was expected to tell his brother he was alive? John was pretty sure that if Sherlock hadn't told him, there was no chance in hell he was going to tell Mycroft.

"This isn't about Moriarty, Sherlock," Mycroft said and although his voice was utterly smooth, he felt like there was a storm inside him, something twisted and thundering because for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes didn't know how to feel. He didn't know whether to be angry or happy or relieved or sad that Sherlock hadn't told him but was back all the same. The stir of feelings made his chest pinch tightly, confusion and the weight of three months of grief crashing down onto him. He hadn't been to his brother's funeral because he had refused to believe he was dead. Sherlock must have tricked him, he was sure of it. Mycroft knew it all. He knew that Moriarty was dead and that Sherlock had jumped but… he couldn't have really jumped. Sherlock must have known. He must have known Moriarty's plans for him. Mycroft knew his brother's weakness, knew that Moriarty would use it against him because although Sherlock was a Holmes, he also cared just too much and, in the end, how else would a Holmes fall?

But as time passed on, the doubt started. The doubt of if Sherlock had really known Moriarty's plan, had he been smart enough? Had Mycroft's input thrown him off, had that been a factor, had his brother been beaten? And then, more questions. What if Sherlock was really dead? What if Mycroft was to truly never see his little brother again? They argued, of course, but Mycroft was supposed to watch over him, to keep him safe and he had-

He felt fear then. Two months into searching and he had found nothing and Mycroft Holmes was afraid. Afraid that he had sold the only thing that was really of any worth to a Holmes, the only thing they would take a fall from a building from. Mycroft was afraid he had sold out his family and Sherlock had paid the price for it. He visited Sherlock's grave that day. Just stood and looked at it in the rain, umbrella in hand and over his head, but it didn't make a difference to Mycroft. He read the name on the grave stone over and over again and like a tonne of bricks, it hit him. Sherlock Holmes was dead. His little brother. And he had been the one who had gotten him killed.

"Where have you been, Sherlock?" Mycroft choked out and Sherlock gave him a knowing smile, as if he was happy to have deceived Mycroft. He probably was, it was probably a game to Sherlock, hide and seek but with more of a chance to scorn Mycroft.

"I thought you were looking for me?" Sherlock said and that goddamn smile didn't disappear and it was beginning to annoy Mycroft, "You can't have done that good a job if you didn't know where I was." Mycroft clenched his teeth and fixed his brother with a glare.

"This isn't a game, Sherlock," he snarled, "You disappeared, I thought you were dead-"

"That was kind of the whole point," Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft's eyes narrowed further and John thought he saw the man twitch a little. _He _was angry? With Sherlock?

"I asked you a question, Sherlock, where were you?" Mycroft repeated and there was a cold, sharp tone to it now that goaded disobedience, dared it, like Mycroft was throwing down the gauntlet for Sherlock so he could let loose on him. Sherlock tapped a few words on his laptop, purposefully slow so that Mycroft was forced to wait.

"It's none of your business, Mycroft;" Sherlock said finally, "Where I have been doesn't concern you"

"I'm our brother!" Mycroft snapped, "It doesn't _concern _me? Of course it concerns me, Sherlock, now for God's sake stop being childish and-"

"You're the one being childish," Sherlock interjected.

"Don't make me order you."

There was a short tense silence before Sherlock returned his gaze to the computer, Mycroft's steely eyes still on him.

"I would like to see you try," Sherlock said. It was smooth and familiar and John smirked, watching Mycroft's facial expressions twitch in anger.

"Sherlock," Mycroft snarled and John thought that he had never seen Mycroft so angry before, it was barely restrained and John wondered if Mycroft was only keeping it in because he John was there and he had to keep up appearances. For a small moment, John felt sorry for him. He'd been angry when Sherlock had returned and although he had felt guilty, wondering if he could have said more, done more, things he wished he could have said sorry or thank you for; it was nothing compared to what Mycroft had most likely felt. It was either to break down and let that grief control him or to wall it off with anger and John knew what Mycroft would prefer to do. There were things after all that Mycroft was similar to Sherlock in, his pride being one thing.

Mycroft visibly stopped and took a moment to calm himself, taking a deep breath and restarting his sentence with less bite to it. "I heard from an informant watching 221B that you were alive," Mycroft said softly and John could tell that it had hurt him to find out like that, "I came to confirm it." His demeanour was suddenly all business and John saw the flash of pain in his expression; it had been hard to boil his brother's appearance down to simply business for him.

"Well, now you have," Sherlock said, completely oblivious to his brother's situation, "So you can go now" Mycroft almost flinched at that and he swallowed, straightening his jacket and gripping his umbrella a little tighter.

"Always good to see you too, little brother," Mycroft said, "Good day."

John raised an eyebrow at the curt goodbye and didn't bother to nod back at Mycroft as he nodded at him and turned to leave down the stairs. He made the decision in a matter of moments and he quickly followed him.

"I won't be a minute," he said to Sherlock, sure to remember to tell him he was going out. Leaving Sherlock on his own, even just to step out, was something that John wasn't entirely comfortable with just yet. Sherlock waved a hand from where he was sat as John dashed down the stairs to follow the older Holmes.

"Mycroft! Mycroft!"

The man turned, not looking surprised in the least that John had followed him. In fact, it almost looked as if he had expected it.

"Ah, John," Mycroft said and it confirmed John's idea that he had known he'd be followed, "I thought that you'd run after me. You are rather loyal to my brother, I must-"

"That's more than I could say about you," John snapped, "What the Hell was that? You didn't even tell him-" John cut himself off to lower his voice in case Sherlock was listening. "You didn't even tell him _your _part in Moriarty's plan! You told me to tell him, you know I didn't get the chance, not before- Anyway, you knew he didn't know and you didn't even," he spluttered for a second, too angry to get the words out.

"You're doing a pretty good job of keeping it quiet yourself, John," Mycroft said calmly.

"Tell him," John said, ignoring the jibe even though it made his blood boil, "Go back up there and tell him, right now."

"Tell him what? That I betrayed him? If Sherlock doesn't know, then it's over. What's done is done. I've said it before John, we have a complex history, Sherlock and I. What's past is gone, bring it up now after it is all done would seem a little counterproductive, don't you think?"  
"That's not the point," John snarled, "He deserves to know."

Mycroft sighed and looked at his umbrella, as if admiring it. "Perhaps," he said.

"Perhaps? That's it? Perhaps? Mycroft, for God's sake, he's your brother, he deserves to know the truth-"

"Would you tell your sister, John? If you had done the same? Would you have told her?" Mycroft shot at him. John narrowed his eyes at him.

"I wouldn't have done the same," John said.

"Then that is where you and I are different," Mycroft said and twisted his umbrella in a way that told John that this conversation was over, "I'm sorry John. We come from two very different worlds. What Sherlock expects of me and what you expect of me are two very different things." He turned and John couldn't bring the words to his mouth to respond to that, anger and confusion mixing together to prevent him from coming up with an answer for Mycroft.

"You care for him, Doctor Watson and I appreciate that. However you make the mistake of overestimating my own capacity for caring. Sherlock has grown to expect very little of me, I would urge you to do the same."

He was halfway out the door when he called back to John. "Do make sure he eats something," he said and with that, the door closed and John was left, staring at it. John stood, his mind ticking over what Mycroft had said. _My own capacity for caring. _Mycroft was insinuating that he didn't care but John knew just as well as he did that wasn't the case. Sherlock had said to Moriarty once that he didn't have a heart, to deflect one of his nemesis's threats and Mycroft had done exactly the same just then, deflecting John for fear that he would overestimate him. _Now we both know that isn't quite true. _Was it possible that it wasn't quite true about Mycroft too? That looking after his brother wasn't simply a promise or a responsibility or even a biological compulsion to protect his own family but it was because, out of all the possessions Mycroft Holmes could have in the world (and being as rich as he was, he could have his pick), the one thing he really did care for was family? And not just family, but his brother.

His world may have been different to Mycroft's and Sherlock's too up until now but as a medical man, John knew for sure that everyone had a heart. Perhaps it wouldn't be too hard to consider that Mycroft Holmes' heart was, just maybe, his own little brother.

* * *

**_A/N: Well, don't hate me for the cheesy thing about hearts, but I was thinking that if Sherlock Holmes' heart was John and he'd be willing to jump off a building for him, Mycroft Holmes' heart may well be Sherlock (?) :) _**

_**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that chapter; I really enjoyed writing that one X) A real quick question: How does everyone feel about a little storyline within the main one where John investigates Sherlock's death and finding out why he did it? I hinted at it in this chapter so I could ask what everyone thought about me doing it, so any feedback is much appreciated :S**_

_**Thank you for reading, as always all reviews are appreciated! Thanks very much!**_

_**Until next time!**_


	5. Police

_**A/N Okay, so I'm about an hour late on this chapter for it to be still Sunday, but if we play pretend we might be okay :D Sorry it's so late again but I think I was a little being a little ridiculous/overambitious/stupid to try and write this Fanfiction while I'm on my final exams :'( Anyway, thanks so, so much to everyone who favourite-d, alerted and most of all, reviewed! I love ya'll so much :') **_

_**I hope you enjoy the chapter, just one warning though: Two minor swear words are used in this chapter! Just thought I'd tell you guys :S**_

_**Disclaimer: After using only a small diamond, a flying monkey, a priceless Ming vase and a cactus to escape, I am now in possession of 5 bendy straws, a lollypop stick and a tube of kitchen roll and am currently creating the satellite of all satellites! Estimated time: … my maths isn't great… so I'm estimating an approximation of 20-30 minutes, tops… **_

* * *

John was greeted with a raised eyebrow from Sherlock as he came back to the living room, still a little dazed after what Mycroft had said to him.

"I hope you're not going to lecture me about being nicer to Mycroft, you do it every time," Sherlock said

"Sorry, what?"

"My brother," Sherlock reiterated, "Whenever my brother and I talk you're always telling me to be nice, I hope you aren't going to lecture me on it again. I had a right not to tell him, I was keeping it a secret from everyone, not just him." Sherlock sounded indignant, as if he had fully expected his brother to have understood and was outraged at Mycroft's lack of comprehension. John smiled, sitting down to finish his now cold breakfast.

"For once," he said, "I actually agree with you."

Sherlock gave him a look from over the top of his laptop screen. "Really?" he said. John nodded, trying to act nonchalant.

"Yeah," John agreed. He thought for a moment if Sherlock knew about what Mycroft had done already but from the way Sherlock had spoken about him, he doubted it. It was better that Sherlock didn't know just yet, at least, not from him. John whole-heartedly wanted to see Mycroft explain it to Sherlock; however he didn't want that bombshell to be dropped when Sherlock had only just returned from somewhere that had obviously been more stressful than the situation Sherlock was in now. Even with his brother angry with him and trying to fit back in with life at 221B, Sherlock's alarming drop in weight evidenced that wherever Sherlock had been, it hadn't been a healthy or safe environment and no doubt John would have disapproved greatly of it.

He looked at Sherlock's breakfast plate and was relieved to see that Sherlock had at least picked at it a little while John was downstairs. It was only nibbling around the edges but at least it was something. It was worrying because John knew that Sherlock would only eat at all if he was really, really hungry. To Sherlock, food was just transport and so for him to eat something of his own accord, even a tiny bit, must mean that Sherlock knew he was underweight and had actually taken the initiative to do something about it. He wondered if he could prompt Sherlock to eat anymore but the last thing he wanted to do was push him too hard, especially after his meeting with Mycroft. It was like treading on broken and one wrong step would result in painful consequences.

Deciding that it was best to tread carefully rather than run in, John tiptoed around the subject. "Mycroft didn't tell me he was looking for you. In fact, he hardly spoke to me at all the past few months," John said, keeping the real reason to himself. Sherlock nodded slowly and John kept his face neutral as Sherlock studied it. Sherlock's attention flickered away from him and John guessed that either he had got all he wanted or he had lost interest although he wasn't sure which was more likely. Sherlock seemed a little edgier, even more so than usual and John couldn't really tell his mood as he had grown used to. It was as if the distance between Sherlock and the rest of the world had grown wider and the chasm in-between was gaping at John, nothing but blackness and a need to get to the other side.

Sherlock's attention flicked away from John and he spun around in his chair, grabbing the TV remote and turning up the sound. John blinked as he realised the man on the news and wondered if Sherlock's brain had been set to listen for familiar names as John hadn't even been able to properly hear the TV from where he was sat. But then, he wasn't the world's best and only consulting detective.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, recently reinstated to his post after an embarrassing dismissal to a lower rank just three months ago, is giving a statement live from Scotland Yard," a voiceover read and John saw the Inspector on the screen, sat at a press table in the familiar surroundings at the New Scotland Yard. John shot a look at Sherlock but the detective was closely watching the screen and John returned his attention to it as Lestrade started speaking and the camera zoomed in on him.

The Inspector looked as bad as John felt. John was never sure of what Lestrade really thought of Sherlock but he did know that, of all the police in Scotland Yard, Lestrade had been the most loyal to Sherlock and not only that but, although Sherlock would not admit it, Lestrade was a friend. Lestrade was the only person other than Molly that John and Sherlock had had over at Christmas. He had stood up for Sherlock right up until the end and most of all, he had trusted Sherlock. John hadn't had contact with Lestrade over the past three months but now he knew why. Lestrade had been demoted and, by the sounds of it, humiliated. Of course, it was to be expected as he had put blind faith in someone that had been labelled as a fraud; however John could barely imagine what it had been like. Not only had he had to deal with thinking that Sherlock was a fraud and had killed himself, but he had also had to suffer the embarrassment and hardship of his demotion. Not to mention the trouble he already had with his wife and John was surprised that Lestrade had managed to keep up appearances as well as he did. It was understandable that he hadn't been in contact with anyone, let alone John.

He looked tired and his usually clean shaven face was now covered with a small amount of stubble that looked like it hadn't been shaved simply due to a lack of time rather than simple neglect. Everything about him had an air of tightly pulled tension and stress that was palpable even through a television screen and as a doctor John would have immediately recommended rest and several types of medication but he doubted Lestrade had the time for either of those things. His clothes were a little rumpled as if they hadn't been ironed very well and although John didn't have the deductive ability that Sherlock did, he guessed that Mrs Lestrade was no longer living with her husband or, at least, was no longer ironing his shirts. A wave of sympathy came over him as he looked at the sorry state of Lestrade's crumpled, resigned face as he faced the press. He looked as if he was facing a pack of wolves and was just about ready to give up the fight and be eaten.

"As you all already know by now," Lestrade began; his voice strained and tired sounding, "Our internal investigators have been working very hard at finding the true cause of Mr Holmes' death and looking into a number of cases he was involved in on a consultative basis. New evidence has recently come to light that Mr Holmes was not connected to the attempted robbery of the Crown Jewels, the Bank of England or the freeing of the inmates at Pentonville Prison and was in fact working against the man known as Richard Brooks, who we now believe to be, in fact, James Moriarty."

"Are you saying that Sherlock Holmes didn't invent James Moriarty? That the article published was incorrect?" A reporter from the front row of seats asked. She was a pointed, slender woman and reminded John a little of a crow.

Lestrade nodded and readjusted his position. John hadn't noticed her until now, but he could just make out a small row of seats behind Lestrade and Sally Donavon was sat on one of them, her expression utterly blank. It was hard to tell if she was angry or disappointed in what Lestrade was saying, but he imagined she was.

"Yes, we have reason to believe that James Moriarty existed all along," Lestrade said and he looked almost as if he was going to continue but then shut his mouth and sat back a little in his chair, as if he was afraid of an oncoming question. John saw Sherlock look disheartened at his silence and realised that Sherlock was waiting for some kind of clue. He seemed unaffected by seeing the Detective Inspector again but that was Sherlock's way with most things, so John let it slide.

"How does the Yard explain the death of Mr Holmes then? Was it a murder?" a large man in a BBC jacket asked from the forth row. John was surprised to see Lestrade's expression flicker sadly. He had never been able to gauge Lestrade's friendship with Sherlock as he never knew if they only cared about the practicality of any friendship they had, the assets they were. Sherlock was a valuable asset to the police and Lestrade was Sherlock's ticket into cases however the shiny tint and saddened look in Lestrade's eye seemed to betray a friendship that meant more than deductions and detective work. John almost felt proud of the man. Even though Sherlock was rude to him every day on cases and Lestrade had told John stories about Sherlock before they had met where Sherlock could be downright cruel (one story had ended in Lestrade giving Sherlock a fully justified black eye and after that Sherlock had, although he never fully respected Lestrade, seemed to grow more regard for him and, even though he did still mock him, he mocked him less), Lestrade had trusted and befriended the consultant.

"We're unsure as yet of the circumstances of Mr Holmes' death however I can assure you that we are looking into it."

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, cutting his attention away from the screen, "We're going to Scotland Yard." John blinked.

"What? Now?"

"Yes, it's of upmost importance," Sherlock insisted, "As usual Lestrade has skirted around everything of importance. We're going to Scotland Yard ourselves."

"Everything of- Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked, confused. Sherlock was already up, rummaging around for his coat. John had almost thrown his coat away but for some unknown reason, the reason why most of Sherlock's stuff was still here, he had kept it. Perhaps it had been the faith in the idea that Sherlock would come back or maybe it was because he simply didn't want to admit his best friend had died and he was going to have to part with everything he knew of him.

"Yes John!" Sherlock said and there was a hint of the old exuberance there, the flair of his arms as he finally found his coat and shrugged it on, buttoning it over his still slightly rumpled shirt and making himself look reasonably presentable. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's tired eyes and unruly curls. He was going to have to try a little harder in order to look halfway decent but apparently Sherlock didn't care. To Sherlock, going to see Lestrade seemed to have little need for an effort on his part. It was just Lestrade. Not in a derogatory way but in a way that John imagined that Lestrade had seen Sherlock worse off than this anyway and that seeing it again was now no longer Sherlock's concern. Lestrade knew about Sherlock's drug problem before John and there were only so many ways that Lestrade could know about that, most of them involving a very unsavoury thought of a high detective.

"Lestrade reinstated after trusting me? My name suddenly cleared? A little odd don't you think?" Sherlock cried. John almost smiled. Sherlock almost looked like his old self, tackling a case and wanting to shout it from the rooftops. Almost. There was still a slight over-intensity to the way he spoke, an edginess to his action but it seemed close to normal for Sherlock's often erratic behaviour anyway. John looked forlornly at his breakfast, realising that he wouldn't be getting the chance to finish it now. Sighing, he got up, grabbed his cane and followed Sherlock out of the flat.

* * *

Sherlock hailed a cab with his usual flourish. He noticed John's cane but he didn't say anything and John didn't know if he was grateful for that or not. It made him feel helpless and for some reason, insecure. As if Sherlock would decide that he was bored of waiting for John and would take off somewhere that John couldn't find him and didn't know if he was okay. The startlingly close comparison to the past three months felt like a self-diagnosis and John realised just how afraid he was of Sherlock disappearing again, so much so that he was self-conscious of his own downfalls as a possible factor in Sherlock running off. It was a silly idea, Sherlock had left him standing at a crime scene time and time before but John always knew he'd be back at Baker Street at some point. It was just the way Sherlock worked. It was a silly idea to think that Sherlock cared about his cane or if it really was psychosomatic. It was strange as even though Sherlock could be the rudest person alive, he didn't care what people looked like. Other people could be prejudiced about what people looked like, they judged them and yet the most tactless person on the planet was the least judgemental of them all. To Sherlock, people were just people, regardless of what they looked like. To Sherlock, John was just John and nothing else.

They arrived at Scotland Yard, the man at the reception giving Sherlock a look that almost made John snort with laughter as the man recognised who Sherlock was and then apparently tried to tell himself that it was impossible and silly. He had agreed to take them to Lestrade but constantly looked back at Sherlock as he led them through to Lestrade's office, gaping at him. John could imagine the very thought process going through his head. _That can't be Sherlock Holmes, it can't be. It looks like him but it can't possibly be him. He's dead. Isn't he? _Or at least disbelieving words to that effect. Sherlock for his part remained passive, ignoring the shocked looks as he strode past the offices. John felt a grin creep onto his face as a semi-hush followed them as they walked. The place felt ridiculously familiar to John as they crossed through the rows of desks but he noticed that Lestrade's office had been moved to a new room, perhaps since they reinstated him. The receptionist knocked on the door before entering, beckoning for John and Sherlock to follow him in.

The office was decorated much like Lestrade's old office; white walls with a large window, a bookshelf and cluttered desk. Lestrade was stood with his back to the door, speaking with two gentlemen who appeared to be angry with him. If Lestrade's defeated stance was anything to go by, they were winning whatever argument it was, however from the lack of speech from Lestrade, John guessed that it wasn't so much of an argument as a severe telling off from two people Lestrade didn't have the power to dispute with. John felt sorry for him as his shoulders looked slumped, his head barely held up to look them in the eye as they pointed fingers at him angrily. John took in the scene and saw Sherlock survey the entire office, eyes sweeping over everything before falling on Lestrade once again. The receptionist looked mildly embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet a little. John decided he liked him. The young man obviously still respected Lestrade and was obviously embarrassed to have walked in on him being berated.

He gave a cough and managed to speak up; his voice a little quieter than it had been when he had spoken to John and Sherlock.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat, "Detective Inspector, you have some visitors." Lestrade took a few seconds to turn, the two men looking over at the receptionist in disdain and finished off their admonishments.

"Thanks Clark," Lestrade said, turning around to greet the young man. His eyes fell on John and then Sherlock and for a second John thought that Lestrade wasn't going to speak at all as his mouth fell open slightly and he stared at Sherlock, his face going a little pale.

"Bloody hell."

It wasn't the most eloquent of greetings, but given the circumstances, it was acceptable. There was a long moment where Lestrade simply stared at Sherlock and it wasn't until Clark cleared his throat loudly that Lestrade snapped out of it and hastily turned back to the men. He said something hurriedly to them and they gave him a glare. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he saw Lestrade give a subdued nod at the men's hateful glares as they walked out of the room, shoving past the receptionist.

"That'll be all, Clark, thanks very much," Lestrade was able to choke out and Clark nodded, gave one final, long look of disbelief at Sherlock before he left the room, shutting the door.

The silence that filled the room was awkward and Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a second before he walked to his desk and sat down in his chair, pouring a drink of water from a bottle and taking a large few gulps. Sherlock seemed to be watching him carefully, waiting and observing. Finally Lestrade seemed to be able to talk.

"It's a joke isn't it?" he said at last and Sherlock gave a small smile, as if he had expected that.

"Not a joke I'm afraid Inspector," Sherlock said, "John's repeatedly told me I'm not very good at jokes." Lestrade stared at him.

"It can't be you," he said and it was like he was trying to convince his head into believing the impossible, like John had had to do, "You're dead… the body, we took a statement from-"

"Molly Hopper," Sherlock completed from him and John remembered Molly's help in the situation, reminding himself to call her later, "You saw the body, filled out the report. Suicide." Sherlock rolled his eyes, impatient for waiting for Lestrade to comprehend.

"You contested the article written about me and was promptly demoted by your superiors, hence the change of office, for your part in allowing me on cases and for throwing a spanner in the works when you continued to try to prove my innocence. You took the wrap for it all in order to protect your subordinates from getting a demotion also, which is why Sally Donavon was at the press conference today with the same badge she's always had," Sherlock said quickly and John realised too late that it would only be a matter of seconds before Sherlock's deductions led him to saying something no doubt close-cutting, "You jumped at the chance to work on my case when it was re-opened and as such got your job back however the demotion has taken its toll. Rumpled clothes; your wife left you after all or you left her, however more likely she left you as you as you tied your tie well this morning, suggesting a hallway mirror and not a cab rear view mirror which you would most likely have used if you had been staying at a hotel further away from work and had to rush in. You've lost weight; not eating. There's a full box of donuts in your bin suggesting people have noticed and bought you food but you refuse to listen. Stubble; two days old suggests that you've been busy, perhaps getting your position back to its previous standards-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted and Sherlock snapped his head to look at John, lost in the deduction. Lestrade for his part seemed dumbfounded.

"Bloody hell," he said again, "It is you." John smiled at that. Only by being a complete arse could Sherlock prove it was actually him to Lestrade. Typical. Sherlock looked mildly pleased at the notion.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade's face turned immediately a little embarrassed.

"Actually, you were pretty darn close," Lestrade grumbled, his eyes downcast. It was hard enough to admit that his work career had dive-bombed sharply downwards in the past months, never mind his private life. He decided not to add in the fact that, although Sherlock's deductions were almost completely correct, he had lost most of his weight in the month after Sherlock's death. He hadn't been as close to Sherlock as John but he had been shocked by his death and, even surprising himself, upset by it. He refused to admit he missed Sherlock's arrogant presence or insults but Sherlock Holmes had been an incredible man and, more importantly, a friend.

"Good," Sherlock said and the usual arrogance was there, a shining veneer. He moved forward and sat down in one of the chairs at Lestrade's desk. John followed, propping his cane up on the arm.

"Where did you go? After…" Lestrade didn't seem to be able to finish that sentence, unable to come up with what exactly it was that Sherlock had done. John knew the feeling, having experienced the same thing only yesterday.

"Sensible question," Sherlock said, "But, as usual, it's entirely irrelevant. Where I've been doesn't really make any difference whatsoever. The question should be how I did it, my finest trick, or, even more relevant, what it is I am doing here today."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and gave a chuckle. It sounded almost like relief, like the arrogance and familiar insults had only confirmed Sherlock's identity to him.

"Well," he said softly, "At least you haven't lost your charm."  
"And you your incompetence," Sherlock said and John gave Sherlock a kick under the desk. Any other day and it would be just a regular insult, something Sherlock would say to anyone without a second thought, but today wasn't just any day and John believed that Lestrade had earned the right for Sherlock to be at least a little more tactful. Sherlock cleared his thought, an apologetic sound and he looked at John with that "not good?" look that he sometimes gave him. John shook his head.

"The new evidence," Sherlock said, changing the subject, "What is it?" Lestrade gave John a grateful look and it lingered, the thankfulness turning into a mix of regret and apology.

"I'm sorry I didn't call John, I meant to but… things were hell here at the Yard and, well, what could I say? There was no investigation as such; I didn't have anything to give you. I knew it'd only be a disappointment to you," Lestrade admitted, addressing John for the first time.

"Oh, um, no of course, I mean, you're right… I don't think it would have helped me," John said, surprised at the sudden change of conversation. Sherlock visibly looked more impatient with the difference in discussion and he sighed, irritated. It was another change that John had noticed recently. Sherlock was more impatient, more urgent, even more so than he was before. He didn't have time for anything and it didn't say anything good about the lifestyle he had been living of late.

"The evidence, Lestrade, what was it?" Sherlock pressed and Lestrade turned his attention back to him, like a father having to deal with a particularly persistent child.

"Alright, alright, hold your horses Sherlock. We got a new bloke in at the Yard, top brass who had come in 'specially for your case, he said he was interested. Anyway, he organised the task groups and everything and a few weeks later we'd turned up with some new evidence. We'd got a hold of some of Brook's bank details-"

"What?" Sherlock intervened.

"His bank details," Lestrade repeated.

"How? Moriarty is too good to leave bank details accessible," Sherlock said. Lestrade shrugged.

"I dunno. He must have left 'em open when he disappeared. Apparently they got in contact with someone who knew him," Lestrade said, "Don't ask who, all I know is that they turned over some of his details." John thought about the reporter who had written Moriarty's story and wondered if she had been the one to turn over Moriarty's details, perhaps she felt guilty. However, despite the fact that she was obviously on Moriarty's side when it came to a payroll, he doubted Moriarty kept people like her on his side closely enough to know details about him. For a second, John thought of Mycroft. If he had given Moriarty so many details about Sherlock's life, maybe he had found a little something about him too. It seemed likely since Mycroft had been guilt ridden over what he had done and he had a hundred different ways to feed the details into the force anonymously. But if he had the details, John would have thought he would have done what Sherlock would have done: Revealed Moriarty himself. But who else was there who would have those details and want to share them?

"An anonymous set of details didn't worry you?" Sherlock asked, as if he had read John's thoughts. Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache coming on. Truth be told, he had headaches most of the time these days.

"Of course it did, it stank something rotten but I didn't get a say in it. I just had to follow orders, trace up the details," Lestrade said.

"So, let me get this straight. A new top brass comes in, promotes you to lead his Sherlock investigation and actually _wants _the investigation in the first place. He then uncovers evidence to clear Sherlock's name and take down the fake Richard Brook's name," John surmised, his brain feeling fried after months of mundane living suddenly being zapped from it, "Who is this guy?"

"The new Chief Superintendent, Bob Sherrinford" Lestrade explained, "Came in about two month ago. I've actually got a meeting with him in about fifteen minutes; I reckon he'll find Sherlock a lot more interesting than he'll find me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure," he said, "Well, we're always happy to meet new people, aren't we John?" John gave a small laugh at the jolly tone of voice and Lestrade gave a snigger.

"Yeah, you're a regular ray of sunshine," Lestrade said, standing up, "Come on, I can take you to his office if you want." Sherlock nodded and stood, waiting for John to heave himself up and grab his cane before he strode off. Lestrade and John followed behind, Lestrade silently smiling at the fact that Sherlock would need to fall back at some point since he didn't know where he was going, however his smile faltered a moment as he realised that this was Sherlock Holmes; he had probably already deduced where the Superintendent's office was.

"I really am sorry for not calling, John," Lestrade said as he fell into step with John, "I didn't-"

"It's alright Greg," John said, "I understand it." Lestrade gave a look of pure relief, as if he had been waiting to say it for so long that it had become a fervent worry for him.

Sherlock had waited at the door for them to follow him and he rolled his eyes as he opened the door and stepped out; straight into Sally Donavon. The pair stood, staring at each other for a moment, Sally's face one of complete shock and her eyes widened like she was wearing uncomfortable contact lenses.

"Sergeant Donavon," Sherlock greeted.

"W-why the hell is-" She didn't manage to finish her sentence as the chain of command in her head momentarily slowed as she tried to comprehend the appearance of the man stood in front of her. Finally she seemed to come around and addressed Lestrade who was stood with John behind the consulting detective.

"Sir, what the hell is the freak doing here?" she choked and Lestrade looked guiltily at her.

"I know you don't like him Donavon," he said, "But like it or not, Sherlock isn't actually dead."

She didn't say anything for a few moments and there was a strange moment where she was unsure of what to do: hit him for still being around to annoy her, arrest him for her still suspicious nature of him or, strangest of all, hug him. It wasn't that she liked Sherlock, she couldn't stand the man. She didn't trust him. She didn't see any reason to, he wasn't part of the police, he hadn't worked hard to get here and yet he was still aloud where she wasn't even aloud. However, she could hug Sherlock Holmes right now because he was alive and that meant that Lestrade hadn't fought for nothing. She could see Lestrade, standing taller than he had in months behind Sherlock Holmes, where he had always been and yet, he was ten times the man Sherlock Holmes was. He wasn't as smart as Sherlock, but he made up for it in dogged persistence, heart and loyalty and Lestrade was probably one of the few superior officers here that Donavon both liked and respected. She had never seen anyone fight so hard for another person as Lestrade had fought to clear Sherlock's name and it had almost destroyed him in the process and now Sherlock was alive and back like some weird parody of a miracle and Lestrade's work hadn't just cleared Sherlock's name, but it was as if her boss had been rewarded for his efforts. She didn't know why her boss respected Sherlock so much, but he did and that was really all that mattered.

She glared at Sherlock, deciding to carry on as she normally would. "You listen to me, freak, last time you were here you were under suspicion of kidnapping two kids, so don't think I've forgotten it, you hear me?" she snapped, "I don't care if you're back; I'm going to be watching you. People around here think it's all roses and daisies now your names been cleared, well I'm telling you, I ain't forgotten why it was in the need of clearin' in the first place, alright? And if you dare to put us in a position where we have to clean up after you again, I'll arrest you myself." It was weird, like talking to a ghost and she tried to hide the fact that her hands were shaking slightly in shock. She wondered briefly is she had been too harsh but she shook it from her mind. Sherlock deserved it. He'd almost lost them all their jobs, jobs they had worked hard to get and not only that but she had helped to ruin Lestrade too and, by the looks of it, John had had a hard time of it too. He deserved a little grilling for that.

John waited for the snide remark, the jibe that would put Sally in her place but it didn't come. Instead, Sherlock merely looked her in the eye and quietly muttered "I know."

John gaped. The words had sounded hollow and heart wrenching, jarring in their sudden, out-of-nowhere honesty. He sounded almost sorry and it made John wonder if Sherlock thought he _deserved_ that. He'd pulled off a miracle, who was Sally Donavon to-

"Donavon," Lestrade cut across John's thoughts as he spoke to Donavon, "You can drop those files in my office, I'm taking these two to see the Superintendent." He gestured to the files in Donavon's hand and he too looked a little shaken by Sherlock's response, almost as much as Sally, who was looking at Sherlock in a mix of suspicion and regret.

"Yes sir," she said and she pushed past Sherlock, avoided contact with him as if he was Death and it was catching. John caught the slight tremble of her hands as she passed and almost felt sympathy for her. She had painted over her shock but in all truth, everyone was affected by Sherlock's return. At the moment he was like a lightning storm, striking different people in different intensities but in the end all striking the same chord, which the same effect.

Lestrade shot John a look as Sherlock lingered in the doorway a moment in thought before continuing on and the message was clear. _What was that? _John shrugged. He was as in the dark about it as Lestrade was.

They reached the Chief Superintendent's office without Lestrade even having to give directions, Sherlock obviously deducing his way there. John didn't mind and left him too it. He seemed like his old self when he was deducing, like a kid playing pretend suddenly switching back to themselves.

"Just, listen, try not to be completely… yourself when you meet him Sherlock," Lestrade warned him as they got to the door of the office, "He does control my job after all, so be-"

"Nice, yes, yes I've got it. The last time I did that it didn't work out so well," Sherlock added. John gave a look of agreement to Lestrade who sighed and muttered something about losing his job before he knocked and entered.

The office inside was bigger than Lestrade's and decked out in the best furniture, old fashioned bookshelves and a cabinet of war medals stood in one corner, looking slightly out of place with the modern desk and chair. The man inside the room seemed to look a little out of place too but in a way that made John feel like he was immediately in the presence of someone powerful. He was a tall, wiry framed man, neatly tucked into a suit and his light brown hair tidied just as neatly with a small amount of hair gel so it stayed perfectly styled into a professional, business type fashion. He turned from studying a file by his window as they entered and John saw the professional expression on his face falter when he saw Sherlock. He looked right past both Lestrade and John and locked eyes with the detective, sealing his gaze on Sherlock's face. John looked at Sherlock and was shocked to see a look of recognition, along with a tumult of other expressions on his face.

"Sherlock," the man said. Sherlock kept his eyes on him and the sound of his name didn't seem to register; either he had expected it or he wasn't surprised by it.

He straightened a little, matching the man stare for stare before he spoke a single word.

"Father."

* * *

_**A/N Okay, okay so I dunno if that was any sort of shocker but hey ho :D I wasn't sure if I liked this chapter and how it turned out but I enjoyed writing it and I *think* I like how it's turned out :S**_

_**Sorry for any spelling/grammar/research mistakes, as always :D**_

_**Also, sorry if the use of swearing offended anyone, but it was minor and fitted in with Lestrade's accent/personality. I never noticed how really, really Londoner Lestrade sounds till I wrote him and then I wrote Sally and I was just like "is that what us British sound like to people watching our shows?" XD (I'm from Yorkshire though, so my accent is nice and broad and farmer-like :D) but yeah, I just found it interesting/surprising.**_

_**Anyway, thanks for reading, reviews are my favourite things in the world so please feel free to drop me one if you liked/hated/wished I'd changed something in it and I'll see ya'll next time!**_


	6. Secrets

_**A/N -_- So, I've finally got only 1 exam left and a whole 11 weeks till I start my new college and… I get sick -_- I'm feeling much better today but I had to survive a two hour trial at my new job yesterday while feeling like rubbish and my only thought was "how on earth am I gunna write my next chapter of fanfic?" XD Lol, I know how to lay out my priorities :D Anyways, I'm feeling better now and am pushing forcefully onwards!  
**__**Also, on a random note, has anyone else spotted that image manager thing? You can have, like, book cover type things on your stories! :O I am flabbergasted by this! If I was any good at making images, I'd have some, but I fail at making wallpapers and stuff XD So I'm afraid that I don't think I'll be making use of it! D':  
**__**A big thank you lovely Ms Cainchan for reviewing, your lovely reviews always make my day! Also a big thanks to everyone who favourite-d and alerted, it makes me smile when I see those lovely things in my inbox X)  
Disclaimer: Okay, so my estimation was incorrect and have instead resorted to allowing the monkeys to build me wings to fly to safety with :S They're aerodynamically sound, right? After developing illness, no doubt rabies from these **__**fleabag**__** *No, wait, wait, please don't hurt me! Stop! ARRRGH!*… lovely monkeys, I have bought shares in Kleenex tissues and cough sweets, supplying me with enough money to build the best wings ever created and find our Sherlock! (No-one has any tips on how to fly, do they? :S)**_

* * *

For a moment, John was certain that he had misheard what Sherlock had said. He almost laughed at the pure absurdity of it, only just stopping himself by glancing a look at Lestrade and seeing the same doubting, shocked expression on his face. John felt a cold shiver run through him as the thought hit him. _This man was Sherlock's father? _He gaped at the man and realised that even if Sherlock hadn't addressed the man, John would have had the nagging feeling of familiarity at the Chief Superintendent's appearance. He would certainly have come out of the office feeling as if there was something missing as even as John looked at him now, it didn't take any stretch of deduction to see the massive similarities between Sherlock and the older man.

The face shapes were identical and although the Chief Superintendent's face was older and more hardened, John could easily pick out the same angular features and although his hair was smoothed down, it was the same shade of brown as Sherlock's. He was a little larger than Sherlock was but he was just as tall as Sherlock was and even the way he held himself reminded John of Sherlock. It had a hint of the military to it, a stance that John recognised, but he held his head just like Sherlock did, his fingers holding the file in the same delicate way that Sherlock held evidence, the expression observing the file almost identical to the one that Sherlock held while deducing. The thing that unsettled John the most however was his eyes. The colour was practically the same and they had the same intelligent spark in them. In fact, they were so alike that if John had only been looking at those and nothing else, he could just as easily have been talking to Sherlock. The phrase "he has your eyes" seemed to take on a whole new meaning and John had to look away quickly before the feelings of déjà vu got any stronger.

There was a silence in which nobody seemed to know exactly what to say; John and Lestrade unable to speak through their shock (the thoughts seemed to be coalescing in Lestrade's mind so strongly that his expression revealed it, as if he himself had experienced the same feelings of déjà vu every day of meeting this man and yet he had never dared to wonder) whereas Sherlock and Mr. Sherrinford appeared to be performing calculations, estimating the correct thing to say, as if the whole thing was one elaborate chess match. Then, finally, Sherlock seemed to decide to make the first move, tentatively testing out the playing field.

"I have to admit that your reappearance has… surprised me," Sherlock said and there was a note of hesitancy in there, like he was still trying to scrape around his memory for clues. His father smiled and it was the kind of smile that John couldn't quite put a lock on, one that looked to be both wary and caring at the same time, sympathetic almost to Sherlock's confusion.

"It's good to see you again also, Sherlock," he replied and he turned to John, acknowledging him properly for the first time, "I must apologize for my rudeness, it's been a long time since my son and I have met. I'm Robert Sherrinford, formerly Robert Holmes, before I changed my name. You can call me Bob, if you wish." John stared at him, patiently waiting for his head to reboot and start working properly once again. The man sounded almost… nice. He vaguely wondered if, between his mother and Mycroft, the few scraps of humanity Sherlock had managed to garner throughout childhood had been from his father.

"John Watson," he managed to say, looking over at Sherlock in a muddle of needing both an explanation and needing permission to tell this man about himself. John had got used to meeting dangerous people when around Sherlock Holmes and it was safe to say that he was wary of potential threats. The London that Sherlock Holmes lived in was different to that of most people and Mycroft had been right when he had said that his London was like a warzone, full of risk and enemies.

"A pleasure to finally be introduced," Robert said, smiling at him, "I've read a lot about you, you've been helping my son in his cases haven't you?" John nodded cautiously.

"Well, I have a lot to thank you for then. Sherlock has always been a very intelligent young man but he needs a little bit of looking after, doesn't he?" Robert continued and John felt himself give a small smile. That certainly was true. The man's tone was open and friendly and Sherlock had yet to intervene, which John took as a good sign.

"Would you like to sit down?" Robert said and he gestured to the desk, taking a seat himself and waiting for Lestrade and John to sit opposite him. Sherlock, stubbornly, remained standing.

"I heard that you were a soldier, an army doctor, John. I was in the army myself for a short time, with my brother. We got a fair few medals between us, they're adhered to the Holmes name however, I had yet to change my name by that point," Robert said, pointing over to the display cabinet and John raised his eyebrows at the impressive selection of medals displayed proudly within the case.

"It looks like we owe you an awful lot," John said and the Chief Superintendent's smile widened.

"Our country owes us both an awful lot, if you were as good a doctor as reports say," he complimented. John was about to thank him when Sherlock cut in, obviously tired of the chatter.

"What are you doing here, father?" he said. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's interjection but was surprised to hear that it lacked the usual bite, replacing it instead with genuine curiosity. His voice sounded quiet, cutting through with simple interest and he sounded almost apologetic for interrupting the conversation. In all his time of knowing Sherlock Holmes, John had never heard him sound apologetic for his impatience before.

Robert looked at his son and there was a sort of affection to the look but it made alarm bells ring in John's head all the same. It could merely have been the angle at which he was looking at him from but the look in his eyes seemed similar to the one he had given his case of medals, protective and proud and yet possessive of his achievements. He felt Lestrade tense slightly next to him, like he was trying to move to see the look better and convinced John that he wasn't seeing things. The smile on the older man's face looked genuine enough and John was having trouble deciphering the expression, sure that he was just being overly cautious, too afraid of losing Sherlock again.

"It's been a long time since we have spoken son but I have been following your exploits closely. Dr. Watson's blog has been a marvelous resource to keep me updated however it was after reading the piece in the paper about Richard Brooks and your… defamation that I was sure something was afoot. After your-" he cut off and seemed to have to think about the word before it came out, "death, I was certain."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile. "So," he said, "You used your connections in the police to get you a job somewhere high in the hierarchy in order to find out what was really going on and clear my name."

"Exactly," Robert agreed, "I lack faith in the Holmes name, Sherlock, however I was prepared to believe that you were, at least, a good example of it and, of course, I was always hoping that you would still be alive, somehow. I know how clever you are Sherlock, I was certain that you had found an answer to your problem." John watched as Sherlock's smile widened and there was the impossible to miss shine of pride in his eyes. To anyone else, the change in Sherlock would be impossible to spot, but to John, Sherlock was practically glowing under the praise. He had shone whenever John had complimented his skills, surprised that he hadn't simply told him to "piss off" and happy to hear the appreciation, but this was different. Sherlock looked happier than John had seen him in ages, an innocent sort of happiness that came from something so small and yet meant something huge to him. A shift of something akin to jealousy and protectiveness ground itself into John's stomach but overall he couldn't help but feel grateful for the older Holmes' approval, bringing back some of Sherlock's usual vigor.

"I started an investigation into your name and managed to find sufficient evidence to clear it," the older Holmes concluded, "And now, here you are, alive again and I'm able to see you once again. Things have changed so much, you've changed, Sherlock. A great detective now, the Reichenbach hero. He's inspired the force, hasn't he Lestrade? After we revealed this whole Moriarty thing, Sherlock's become something of a hero, defeating him like that." Lestrade gave a nod but John could see the unease in his face, the slight whisper of suspicion to him. It was obvious to tell that Lestrade didn't trust Robert Holmes, no matter how much he may have owed to Bob Sherrinford. John himself certainly hadn't seen any admiration of Sherlock in Sally Donavon's eyes, nothing but blame settling on Sherlock even after the media storm had calmed down. This "inspiration of the police" might have been what Robert Holmes saw, but Lestrade didn't see it and neither did John and he wondered if Lestrade's uncharacteristic silence and suspicion was anything to do with that.

"We could use a detective like you back on the force, Sherlock," Robert said and for the first time since they had entered the office, Lestrade looked relieved, nodding in agreement, "I don't think it'd be any trouble to get you back on a consulting basis again, if you would like." John raised an eyebrow at that. To get Sherlock back consulting again without trouble indicated power and he briefly considered how far up Robert's input in Scotland Yard went. Sherlock didn't look surprised but there was that slight glow to him still as he nodded and then, with apparently no prodding from John or reprimanding looks, he added, "Thank you."

John gaped at him. Sherlock Holmes had said thank you without pressure from anybody. He looked at Sherlock and then back to the other Holmes, wondering how in God's name he had gathered that much respect from Sherlock Holmes that not only was Sherlock practically lapping up his approval but he was being polite without even so much as a turning up of his nose.

"No problem," Robert Holmes said politely, standing, "I can get Lestrade to inform you of when your re-instatement is complete, if that's okay Greg"

"Um, yeah, that'll be fine," Lestrade agreed but even he seemed to be in awe of how in control and in power Robert Holmes was.

"Good. Now, I regret that I have a meeting to attend to, however it has been fascinating meeting you Dr. Watson," Robert said and John quickly stood to shake his hand.

"You too," John said and the older man nodded at him. He stopped to look at Sherlock, looking his son up and down.

"You have no idea how relieved I am to see you're alive," Robert said, "We've not spoken in a long time Sherlock but it is wonderful to see you again."

Sherlock didn't reply but that same admiring look passed his face and his eyes didn't leave his father as the older Holmes walked from the room. Lestrade cleared his throat, standing up as well.

"I've gotta- that meeting's for me too…" Lestrade paused a moment and then looked at Sherlock, "Is he really your dad?"

"It does have a sort of poetry to it since he's in the police, doesn't it?" Sherlock said, by his way of agreeing. Lestrade let out a huff of air and raised both eyebrows as he processed it.

"Wow," he said eventually, "I thought just one of you was bad enough." John gave a small laugh, confusion making it something of a giggle.

"Um, well… anyway, I've got that meeting," Lestrade said, still looking stunned, "But I'll text you when you're back on consulting, alright? You can find your own way out, right?" He seemed at a loss for what to do for a moment and then seemed to make a decision and walk for the door, only turning back once he reached it.

"And eat something will you, Sherlock?" he said, sounding mildly irritated, "You look like a stick insect."

He left the door open, inviting them to leave and John shot a glance over at Sherlock, hoping for an explanation however he was met only with Sherlock avoiding his gaze and after a few moments, followed Lestrade out of the door.

* * *

"So, do you want to explain to me why your father is the Chief Superintendent?" John said when they finally got home. The taxi ride had been awkwardly silent, Sherlock staring out of the window with a shut-off, calculating gaze and John felt relieved to finally be home.

"He used to work in the police," Sherlock said simply, "Obviously he has used his connections within Scotland Yard to be given a position." It was an obvious deflection, a clumsy one for Sherlock's usual standards.

"So they gave him Chief Superintendent?" John said incredulously. Sherlock nodded.

"He's a very powerful individual," Sherlock said and it was obvious that he wasn't listening, flopping himself down in a chair and flicking through the TV channels casually, sparing each one only a second to catch his interest. John was never sure if Sherlock really did like the crap on tellie or if it was just a way of diverting John's attention from Sherlock. He settled on Corrie and John winced as the screen was filled with two members of the Street arguing with each other in high pitched voices.

"She's obviously sleeping with him," Sherlock mumbled, "The scripting is predictable, as usual." John rolled his eyes.

"Listen, Sherlock," he said, coming to sit on the other chair, "Your dad seems like an alright guy and I'm chuffed that you've got to see him, I just want to make sure you two are okay, that's all. I mean, if you've not seen him in a while then obviously you might not really know him as well as you used to and-"

"We should go out for dinner," Sherlock interrupted, speaking as though he had been ignoring everything John had just said. John gritted his teeth in frustration.

"Sherlock, I'm only trying to-"

"In fact, I know just the place," Sherlock said quickly and he jumped up, indicating immediately to John that this was more than just Sherlock's usual ignorance; he was actively trying to ignore John's prying, "It does a wonderful menu at this hour. Besides, we should celebrate my return and reinstatement, I think."

John searched desperately for some reason to stop Sherlock as the detective rooted around for his scarf. If he lost his chance now, Sherlock would never open up and that'd be it. He felt as if enough secrets were being kept from him already without any more from Sherlock.

"You're not going to have dinner looking like that," John finally settled on. Sherlock frowned at him, the apparent change of demeanour catching him off guard and he looked at John suspiciously.

"Like what?" he said. John nodded at Sherlock's hair. Although Sherlock's face was still relatively clean-shaven, his hair had grown to a ridiculous halfway sort of length, too short to be shoulder length, but too long to be his normal style. John had been meaning to point it out to him but hadn't got the chance, but now he seized upon it.

"When was the last time you had a haircut?" John said. Sherlock glowered at him.

"What does it matter when I last had a haircut John?" Sherlock said and John gave him his best sceptical, mother hen look and Sherlock sagged slightly. John could practically see his thought process written above his head. _Time spent in army means a neat, practical attitude. Mother hen looking decisive. Prognosis: Situation unable to be salvaged. _

Sherlock sighed and wilted under John's glare, much to John's relief.

"Fine," Sherlock spat, dragging up one of the wooden chairs from the table. It wasn't the first time John had had to cut Sherlock's hair, the consulting detective usually far too busy to care about his appearance, much to John's chagrin and he had often had to forcibly drag Sherlock from his room to "cut that Goddamn mop of yours". John gave a smile, scurrying into the kitchen to fin the scissors, hearing Sherlock grumbling in the living room. Sherlock knew he was right, he did look a bit of a mess, but he also knew the operating factor of the gesture: John needed Sherlock to sit still long enough to get through to him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the idea, considering how much nagging he was about to receive. He would have smiled at the idea if he wasn't so agitated, the idea of John nagging him like he always had done. Sherlock didn't know quite how he felt about his father's sudden return but John's familiar presence at his side felt somehow comforting and, although he wouldn't show it to John, he felt grateful at his friend's unchanging personality.

John returned with the scissors and Sherlock braced himself for the grilling he was going to receive. The thought of an angry army doctor wielding a pair of scissors behind one's head would be a terrifying thought to anyone but Sherlock, who knew undoubtedly that the worst that could happen would be John feeling offended by Sherlock's refusal to co-operate. _Sorry John, _Sherlock thought to himself, _but my father's relations with me isn't going to be a topic up for debate tonight. _He felt drained, not that he'd reveal that. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his father when his own feelings about it were confused anyway.

"Sherlock, listen, I'm not expecting you to tell me anything about your dad, okay? I don't like talking about my dad so I'm not expecting to tell me anything about him; I just want to make sure that you're okay with it. Your dad showing up, I mean. You've been under a lot of stress as it is and I'm just worried that-"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. In all honesty, he didn't know that for sure. He _felt _okay with it. The logical part of his brain was trying to get something through to him, as if he'd deleted something he shouldn't have but for all he knew, he felt _glad _to see his father again. Or at least, he was sure that was what he was feeling, despite a wandering feeling of confusion. "I'm fine with it, John, there's nothing else you need to know," Sherlock said calmly.

John knew that there was something still troubling Sherlock, the feeling of secrets being kept from him was beginning to grind at John's brain and he desperately wanted to just shake Sherlock and ask him what the hell was going on with him. He seemed different and worse of all, he wasn't telling John things. Sherlock had never lied to John without reason and although those reasons were often infuriating ad dangerous, he would never believe that Sherlock Holmes had told him an outright lie to save face. And yet, right now, John felt himself doubting that. What was Sherlock so afraid of him finding out that he would lie to him about it? He sighed and started to cut Sherlock's mane of hair, feeling overwhelmed at the ridiculous task of trying to tame the mass of locks in front of him. There was always an element of difficulty when living with Sherlock Holmes, from the cases that needed solving and the villains on the loose, to the domestic side, like ignoring Sherlock's many tantrums and trying to keep the man looking half decent and not starving himself to death.

"There's nothing I should know then?" John pressed. Sherlock tried to turn his head around to look at him, almost meeting the scissors with his cheek if John hadn't have pulled his arm back and told Sherlock to keep still.

"Like what? What would you need to know?" Sherlock said defensively. John shrugged, even though Sherlock couldn't see him.

"I dunno, just… your dad wasn't really in that article Moriarty put together about you." The atmosphere immediately felt denser at Moriarty's name and Sherlock sat in dark silence for a long moment, John feeling like he had just stepped into quicksand and was rapidly sinking.

"There were a lot of things that weren't in that article," Sherlock said quietly and John immediately backed off the subject. It was sore for the both of them, an open wound that hurt to touch and John felt like his own emotions had suddenly become more tender at the mention of it.

He let the silence run on, both men deep in their own thoughts. John had finally got Sherlock's hair to the right length by the time he managed to speak again, trying to now shape the still overwhelming curls into something half presentable by Sherlock's standards.

"What you said to Sally Donavon," John said, speaking something that had been niggling at him since leaving Scotland Yard, "Well, actually, more what you _didn't _say, I mean, you just kind of, accepted what she said. I thought you'd say something, what she said was out of order, especially since you're in the clear now. She was-"

"She was right," Sherlock said and John froze in surprise. He let the words linger, allowing time for John to take them in. "You have to remember John that I was convicted of being a fraud, of setting up false crimes, even carrying out my own; if not by a court then at least by the public. And it may be that I have got my name cleared but it is still a serious thing to have been accused of. I would be surprised if nobody did confront me. She is right to keep an eye on me, John. Surprising as it may be, she may be incompetent, but in a way she does happen to be a half decent police officer."

John took the words in silence. He wasn't even sure what to think of them, only that, in some capacity, Sherlock believed that he deserved to be kept in suspicion, for people to be wary of him. He silently finished Sherlock's hair, not giving a reply to what Sherlock had said because, although there was sense in what he had said, John couldn't help but disagree. Sherlock was his friend, a great detective and was not someone to be held in suspicion of anything, let alone of being a fraud.

"Somebody has to watch the watchmen," Sherlock said into the silence and John didn't know if it was aimed at him or if Sherlock was saying it to himself. John silently cleared up the floor, putting the scissors away and felt rather than saw Sherlock begin to move around in the living room, the usual spring lacking from his movements. John could honestly say he felt the same, exhaustion draining at him.

The only thing that dragged him out of the house to go have dinner was the fact that, no matter the circumstances, John could always honestly admit that he enjoyed going out for dinner with his friend and he was also simply glad to see Sherlock eating something at last. As Sherlock had predicted, the menu was great at that time of the day and, as usual, they got the familiar looks from the waiters that seemed to want to ask if they were "together" to which John would indignantly reply a forceful "no!" Twenty minutes in, the food having arrived exactly when Sherlock had estimated it to and with the waiter having forgotten the garnish John had requested, as Sherlock had already said would happen, John had almost forgotten about Scotland Yard and although he could still see Sherlock mulling it over in his mind, he could almost pretend that things were halfway normal.

* * *

Halfway across London and Mycroft Holmes was sat in his office, waiting as the trill of the phone on the other end of the line rang out in his office. He usually disliked speakerphone; however, in the privacy of his own office, he could make an exception. Bob Sherrinford's file was on his desk, Mycroft's fingers drumming over it. He had been suspicious ever since he had heard of the new Chief Superintendent yet he had not had the time to investigate. The minute his spies had confirmed Sherlock's arrival at Scotland Yard, Mycroft had looked into Robert Sherrinford.

The Chief Superintendent's face looked out of a photo on the file and Mycroft had circled it, the word "HOLMES" written in capitals around his name in neat, tight handwriting. A Holmes was currently in the top ranks of Police status and Mycroft had only realised it now because he was no longer spending his time scouring the globe for his brother. He was losing his touch, not least because the man he was currently looking at just happened to be no one short of their father. His fingers tapped impatiently and he could feel a silent fury building up in him as he waited for someone to pick up. _What the __**hell **__was father doing here? And moreover, what was he doing talking to Sherlock? _

The rings rang out and Mycroft was greeted with an answer phone message.

"You have reached the office of Chief Superintendent Robert Sherrinford. Unfortunately I am not available at the moment but if you could leave your name, time of call and a message, I will be sure to return your call." There was a beep that followed and the sound of Robert Holmes' voice had made Mycroft's fingers curl up into a tight fist. A few second of silence gave him time to decide not to leave a message and he ended the recording, slamming the phone down hard, gritting his teeth in anger.

A few seconds later he ripped the cord from the phone, pushing it from his desk with a snarl and hearing the satisfying clatter of plastic as the phone hit the floor. He stood up, straightening his suit, back to business and breathed out slowly. He sent a text to his assistant, who had taken up the name of Patricia on his phone today, before he stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

_**A/N Um, secondary disclaimer of a serious nature: I don't own Coronation Street and so can't speak for its storylines and since I don't actually watch any soaps, I can't really say if someone is sleeping with someone else on it… however it does seem a likely storyline for Corrie XD **_

_**Anyway, I'm not sure what to think of this chapter, I'm not completely happy with it, but I'm coughing and spluttering like a dying taxi cab driver and can't really make any judgements on anything at the moment :/ So yeah, I hope it's okay!**_

_**Any and all reviews are welcome and absolutely adored so please be sure to press that shiny button and make my day! XD Thanks again for reading :) **_


	7. Morgue

_**A/N Hey guys! Sorry once again that this is late but I've had such long shifts at my new job and studying for my final exam that it's been a nightmare getting slots of time big enough to write fanfic in, especially since this chapter ended up being so gosh darned long XD Seriously, I didn't expect it to be as long as it is, but it's kinda drabbly in parts, so please excuse it :S  
Speaking of its epic length, some news: This chapter will be split into 2 PARTS. Sorry for the cap locks, I just want people to not think I'm posting 2 weeks' worth of fanfic chaps as I'm posting this one tonight and another one tomorrow. They were originally supposed to be just one chapter but it got loooong and I've had to split it (also, it's 1AM here and I have to be up early and am dreading it :/ So I'm gunna get some shut-eye and post the rest tomorrow). So yeah, two parts in two days, but I'm still gunna be posting my next update on Sunday :) Sorry about the kerfuffle, please feel free to flame me for my idiocy :/  
To all that reviewed, favourite-d and alerted, THANK YOU! Cookies to you all and mountains of my unabashed love to your names! To Detectiveatwork, don't worry, it's not going to be a Johnlock story :)They're just gonna be good friends (even though these pesky boys write themselves in ways that seem as Johnlock as the show suggests sometimes -_- It's a nightmare -_-). I agree it'd ruin the essence of it.  
Finally: A huge THANK YOU to Cainchan, my wonderful reviewer and friend who has kindly let me use her fanart as covers for this story as well as Never The Twain. So mountains of thanks and a Holy Grail built to your name my lovely!**_

_**Disclaimer: With advice from theimprobableone (thanks by the way for your review and advice :D) I asked the Penguins of Madagascar to help me build wings!**_

_**It did not go well. I should have listened in biology when they told me that penguins can't fly. Current location: Somewhere out at sea. It's cold; I only have my monkeys and a battered copy of The Traveller's Easy Cookbook for company. I'm shivering and almost all alone and alas… still no Sherlock in sight… it's a sad day to be me D':**_

* * *

John woke up feeling relieved. He had woken up terrified before, nightmares having played their part in that, but relief had never been something that he had woken instantaneously with. Not that it didn't feel good, because it felt fantastic, but John was wary of it. The months in which Sherlock had been gone had warned him that what you wake up feeling would be the making or undoing of you for the whole day and John shuddered at the memory of days on end spent feeling nothing but sadness and the terror of being alone.

It took less than a few seconds to recognise the source of the relief and John scrambled to look at his leg, the unfamiliar sensation making him panic for a second. Or to be more specific, the _lack _of sensation. A few seconds in which his heart seemed to beat too fast for his body to cope and he managed to push out a shaky sigh of reassurance. As a doctor, he knew that the idea of becoming mysteriously paralysed overnight was not a medically sound theory, but it was early and he was still tired and the lack of pain in his leg had momentarily caused him worry. However, now he sat, staring at it, the only thought crossing his mind being _The pain is gone. _The pain was gone and John felt the overwhelming relief in the strange not-numbness that all appendages have, the sensation of them being there and yet, ordinarily, you don't feel them, as such, simply know that they are sound and _not in pain. _John couldn't think of any other thought for a long string of minutes and he had to stop himself from dancing from his bed.

He thought about calling Sherlock, to tell him the news and the thought struck him. Sherlock had been back less than two days and the pain in John's leg had vanished, the stress dissipating from his mind and taking the shooting agony with it. He remembered talking to Trishabout the pain when it had first returned.

"It's worse," he had said, "It's worse than it was when I came back from Afghanistan." Trish had nodded at that as if she understood but John knew that she really, really didn't understand because she didn't feel as if her leg was sawn off at the thigh.  
"Grief has a way of causing pain;" she had said tonelessly, "Pain in the mind can manifest itself into physical pain, reawakening your old injuries." John had wanted nothing more than to curl up and give in at that point. She didn't understand it. It was agony.  
However, right now, John had to hand it to her, she had been right. Sherlock's return had put a halt to all thoughts of grief and, sure enough, it was like he had been rewired, the pain now longer chasing signals from his brain down to his leg, as if he had been short-circuited overnight. He grinned, tentatively climbing out of bed. There was still a little discomfort as he slowly stood but nothing compared to what he had suffered with for the last few months. He didn't even bother to change out of his pyjamas, walking into the living room, relishing the silence, uninterrupted now by the usual clack of his cane.

"Sherlock!" he cried, looking for the detective in the living room. He wasn't there and John took a quick scout round the kitchen before he frowned, knocking on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Sherlock?" he called. There was no answer and John felt his stomach drop, his heart rate increasing for the second time in only ten minutes after waking up. He was sure it wasn't healthy but when living with Sherlock it seemed to happen a lot and John couldn't bring himself to care as he stumbled back to the living room.

"Sherlock?" _Oh God. _John tried not to panic. Sherlock was a grown adult, he had probably just gone out somewhere without telling him, like ever, but John still couldn't stop the panic rising in him. Sherlock was gone. _What if he doesn't come back again? What is he doing? _John refused to remember Sherlock stood on the roof of Bart's for what must have been a good twenty minutes before John had got there. Like John wasn't there now. _What if Sherlock doesn't come back? _John shook himself.

"Stop being stupid," he muttered, scolding himself aloud, "Of course he's coming back. He's just gone out." Yet as much as John repeated it, he couldn't calm down. _Sherlock was gone. And alone. Please God, don't let anything happen to him, don't let him-_

John stumbled into the kitchen, desperately trying to keep himself calm as he looked around for his phone. He had left Sherlock alone. He knew Moriarty was no longer around but he felt sick at the thought of Sherlock being alone, if he got hurt by someone again because John wasn't there.

Sherlock didn't look to have slept for most of the night once again as the kitchen table was even more stuffed with laboratory instruments and books and John had to root through them all to try and find his mobile, sure he had left it on there that night. Growling in frustration, he span around, scanning the surfaces. Sherlock had moved almost everything around since he had got home and yet everything still looked as if it was on the verge of being packed away, boxes still stashed around, piles of objects teetering like a hoarder's paradise. John felt almost triumphant when he finally spotted his mobile, like a hunter finding a particularly easy piece of prey, on the kitchen side and he cocked his head at the slip of paper underneath it. He recognised Sherlock's handwriting on the paper and picked it up. Sherlock must have moved his phone to get him to find the note and John didn't know whether Sherlock had known he would panic and had left that specific item with a note specifically or if he had simply thought that John would require his phone at some point in the day. John hoped it was the latter.

The note read: _Gone out to re-establish network. Will be back in several hours. Sherlock. _John knew that by network, Sherlock was referring to the homeless network that he seemed to have working for him. Obviously, over the time he had been gone, it would make sense to assume that people scattered, especially after hearing of his death and no longer had any reason to hang around Sherlock's usual haunts any more. Sherlock would have to practically rebuild the entire network again and John imagined that today would only be the beginning of a long process for his friend.

He frowned at the note as he put it down. As grateful as he was, it was strange that Sherlock had left a note at all. Sherlock never left notes. It just wasn't something that the eccentric flatmate cared about, he expected John to realise he was gone and that he didn't need to tell him where, even when sometimes he was gone for days on end. It had scared the hell out of John the first time it had happened, but eventually he had got used to it. So why had Sherlock left one now? Especially when over the past two days, Sherlock had been more distant than ever. John wondered if Sherlock had known that John would be afraid, had left the note to assure him that he was coming back to assure John because he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable with Sherlock disappearing on his own and not knowing where he was.

John shook his head. As much as he knew that, in Sherlock's own way, John would always be his closest friend, Sherlock didn't think about other people like that. It wasn't because he meant to be rude or uncaring, he simply didn't get it. For all of his deductions and brains, Sherlock Holmes didn't always understand people. It was one of the many reasons as to why he needed John, not just for company or support, but for a humanity that he could sometimes miss in everyone else, that John had to reinforce and make him believe that it was worth having. It was an irony that, with it being John who taught Sherlock to do the more human things, such as leaving notes for your flatmate so that they do not worry, it often fell that John would be the one that would receive the end of Sherlock's more flawed sides of his personality. Notes wouldn't be left, heads would still be in the fridge and Sherlock would still call him an idiot while watching the news. But John understood, perhaps not why Sherlock was like he was, but he understood that was how Sherlock was, take it or leave it and that was the crucial element.

He treated the note with a reasonable bit of suspicion, wondering if Sherlock had left it for a reason. Feeling a little silly, John even checked it over closely for any signs of a coded message, using his old army skills to sift through the note. Living with Sherlock had got him seeing criminals in his soup and it wasn't too much trouble to take extra precautions if it meant avoiding harm. However, he found no secret message, nothing suspicious other than the strangely kind gesture and, leaving the note to one side, he poured himself a quick bowl of cereal, sitting at the table to read the newspaper before he got changed. He wanted to be out as soon as possible because today he had planned to begin his investigation. He had thought long and hard about it, wondering if it would be a betrayal of Sherlock's trust to go behind his back, but he had to know. He wanted to know what had happened on the roof that day, where Sherlock had been all this time and, most of all, what it was that Sherlock wasn't telling him. John knew that Sherlock was keeping something back and John was certain that it had to do with his "death". He had practically evaded the question of why he had done what he did and although John wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and his privacy, he couldn't stand to be kept in the dark any longer. Not when it had affected him so and, more importantly, it had concerned Sherlock's safety.

He scanned through the paper, his mind more on plans of what he was going to do today than on the news that flicked past. He knew the people he needed to see, what he had to look for, however he couldn't help the slight feeling of trepidation forming in his stomach. He didn't know exactly how to start or what a clue would look like when he found one. All he had was what Sherlock had taught him and he felt bad about now using it to find out one of Sherlock's own secrets, even though John was almost sure that it would not harm anything but Sherlock's pride for him to know.

Deciding on a plan of action, John tried to calm down the uncertainty brewing in him. He'd know what to do when he started. After all, when it came to investigating, there was no better teacher than Sherlock Holmes. He would head out soon and he was going to find out the truth, even if Sherlock wasn't going to tell him it himself.

* * *

Sherlock was halfway across London by the time John Watson sat down to eat breakfast. The re-establishing of his network had taken him less than three hours to complete, which he knew would astound anyone that knew precisely how large his network was. However, to know exactly how large his network of the homeless would be a feat in itself as Sherlock had always been careful about it, taking time to keep his messengers a secret. He had worked through it systematically, devising a system for it, searching out what had been scattered and what still remained, linking them together. In his head, he could see it, like a map covered with different coloured areas for the people in them, overlaid with a system of where he had been and how he had got there, what he had said and what they had said and looked like. Everything was up there, all the time. The people he passed in the street suddenly became a story. He could see segments of their life, what they had done this morning, where they had been. Things connected that ordinarily wouldn't to any other person. Any other person was boring and Sherlock couldn't be more glad that today, of all days, things weren't boring.

He had gone out in the early morning. He had needed something to do after another night of only sleeping fleetingly. There was nothing wrong with that, he didn't sleep very often anyway, especially if he was on a case, but he had seen how John had looked at him yesterday and had known that he was worried about it. Even with his hair now cut to a reasonable length, Sherlock knew that he still looked haggard. He was still tired, his body weight still dangerously low and he still had the pale, waxy look to him that came from overtiredness and stress. Even though he knew that John had already picked up on his depleted state, he preferred not to be faced with it early in the morning. It was clear that John cared, too much in Sherlock's opinion, but it was not always advantageous. It wasn't helpful and Sherlock found himself often having to do menial things such as eating and sleeping in order to placate him.

He had gone out to take his mind from things, something that Sherlock Holmes didn't do often. He _liked _having things on his mind, it was interesting, and yet recently he found himself more and more eager to stop thinking about things. To stop thinking about John's irrational concern, to stop about keeping the real reason for his faked disappearance from him, about Mycroft and months spent alone and for some reason missing his old life, about the fact that he was strangely grateful to Lestrade for not giving up the case and the largest thing of all: His father. Sherlock didn't know what to feel about it and that was uncomfortable, that he felt anything at all about his father's return. He just wanted it all _gone. _

He saw a taxi pass and wondered if he should hail it down, perhaps return to 221B and see if John was still at home. He let the taxi past, deciding that it was a bad idea, instead opting to deduce the taxi driver's marital status as he drove by, looking at the state of the man's tax disc. Deduction was clinical and straight forward. It cut straight to the facts. Facts were simple, no grey areas, no emotions, simply cold, calculating facts. They were comforting, above all else. They helped to make sense of things and to distract him from the things that didn't make sense.

He found himself on a familiar path. Not ready to face Baker Street just yet, he had allowed his deductions to remove him from thought of where he was going, an almost autopilot state coming over him and he barely had time to realise where he had led himself before he instantly wanted to turn around and head away to anywhere but here as he saw the all too familiar building loom over him when he turned the corner. Bart's hospital glared at him as he entered its sight and Sherlock stopped, the aching feeling of resentment towards the building sweeping over him. He instantly wanted to stop looking at it, like a child trying to avoid the eye contact of a bully in the school playground, but he found himself stepping towards it on impulse. The memories of the hospital were mixed and confused and it was that confusion that invited Sherlock into its enveloping arms, the need to know what it was that this building held for him and what it meant to him. He couldn't explain it other than it was the familiar, comfortable need to _know. _

He remembered the good things about that place. Spending days on end in the labs, analysing data for cases, the place had been a sanctuary both before and after he had met John. His first meeting with John had taken place in one of those labs, as well as his first meeting with Molly. And yet, there were the bad memories haunting those walls as well. His first meeting with Moriarty, although exhilarating, had become a hated memory. His naivety, his belief that the game would play out without sacrifices, when all along he was heading towards the greatest sacrifice he had ever made. The conversation he had had with Molly where she had looked him in the eye and had known that he was afraid of what he was going to have to do to himself, to John, to everyone he called a friend, in order to save them, had become a memory that he still thought about today, turning the words over in his mind and wondering if he could have said something different that could have stopped what would come to pass.

He looked up at the roof of the building and remembered what it had been like to look down from that rooftop, to see John in this very spot, looking up and reaching out to him. That was the worst memory. He remembered the final conversation with Moriarty before he saw the gun in the criminal's mouth and the trigger being pulled with a shattering noise that made Sherlock stumble back. Shattering because in that moment, although he had planned for it, he knew that he was going to have to convince John Watson that not only was his best friend a fraud but also that he was dead. He remembered the broken sound of John's voice crack through the phone and Sherlock couldn't believe how bad his luck could be as he saw John step out of taxi as, although it was always good to see his blogger, he knew that he was now going to have to look at John's face when he told him he had lied to him. He was going to be forced to lie to his friend's face and although Sherlock would never admit it, he would always remember the most painful memory in Bart's Hospital, perhaps his life, being seeing John's face when he thought that his best friend had committed suicide before his eyes.

Sherlock found himself stood in the spot that John had tried to get to his broken body, John's agonised cries still seeming to ring around the street like a ghostly scream and he felt a shudder as he looked at the pavement where the blood had been cleaned from. The irrational thought came to him before he could even register its irrationality and for a brief second it felt almost as if he really had died and was here, visiting the sight of his death as nothing but a spectre. He looked down at his almost ghostly white hand as he held it out in front of him, the pale, thin appendage doing nothing to convince him that he wasn't simply an ethereal spectator, surveying the spot of his painful demise. Another shudder passed through him and Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts, looking up at the roof of the building, seeing the sickening distance from the top floor to the pavement and, convincing himself that his shivers were simply from the cold, tore himself from the scene to head inside.

He didn't know what had drawn him to enter the hospital, perhaps it was the desire not to go home yet, however once inside it felt almost like a natural thing, his old routine slipping back into place as he felt his legs carry him instantly to the lower floors of the building. It was as if the answer was written on the doors of the building and had given him a direction to walk in as he entered. He didn't need to follow the signs to the morgue as he had been there too many times not to know the by heart by now. He didn't know why he was headed here or what exactly he was going to say but it felt right all the same and he walked into the mortuary with more conviction than he had had in months.

He didn't bother calling out for anyone as he saw the person he was apparently searching for, stood over a large, dead man with spiked blonde hair and who was so large that the table looked as if it was struggling to hold him. He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to the metal slab, right behind the lady who was busily working away at what looked like a report on the cause of death. She didn't hear him, engrossed in her work and Sherlock took another look at the man, then read the cause of death over the worker's shoulder and rolled his eyes, walking around the back of her into her view.

"Wrong," he said as he walked into her line of sight and she jumped, giving a little cry and dropping the file in surprise. He watched her without expression as she gaped at him, the expression becoming familiar to him.

"Y-you're back," she stuttered, staring at him.

"A wonderful observation as ever, Molly," Sherlock said dryly and she stuttered over some indecipherable sounds before she managed to speak.

"Well, I mean, I didn't know… you've been gone a long time," she managed.

"3 months," Sherlock agreed. There was a beat of silence and Sherlock rolled his eyes again as she made a little "oh" sound and had to scoop the pages of the file from the dead man's legs.

"Where have you been?" she asked as she sorted through the pages of the report. Sherlock didn't answer, merely watched her sort the feel, wondering why he had even bothered to come. She was just as surprised to see him back as everyone else, even though she was the one person who had known he was still alive. After all, she had helped him to do it. However, after his fake death, he had left, not telling her where he was going and this was the first time in three months they had spoken. Of course she was surprised to see him. It made Sherlock feel a little sad, that even here he still felt a little like he was coming back from the dead, however the next words spoken made him smile a little.

"What did you mean, wrong?" Molly asked and Sherlock felt a surge of something close to relief sweep him. He had come here because Molly didn't count. Not in a way that she meant nothing, she had helped Sherlock through his final meeting with Moriarty, she had seen emotion in him even when others hadn't and, perhaps most importantly, she had always been there, despite everything, at Sherlock's side. So in his own way, Sherlock knew that Molly meant a lot to him and even though Moriarty hadn't put a sniper on Molly, he considered her a friend, however she had said it herself. She didn't count. To Sherlock, Molly would always be just Molly, just Molly who worked at the morgue who had been by his side all this time and yet he had never really thought about. He could always show that little bit more of himself to Molly Hopper because she would always be the person no-one really thought about until she wasn't there.

"Your report says he died in a motorcycle accident and that he had bought the bike that day," Sherlock said, thankful for the distraction Molly had provided, "However it's obviously wrong. He's far too heavy to sit on a motorbike, much less ride one." Molly blinked, looking at the dead man as if she half expected him to wake up.

"Then… how did he die?" she said.

"Car crash. I'd have to see the scene to decide how they switched the car for the bike, however if he was a worker for Scotland Yard or the hospital service, I could assume that it was simply written up as a bike in the report," Sherlock said.

"He was a doctor for the emergency centre here," Molly said.

"Ah, obviously the paramedics said it was a bike and not a car then. If he has a wife, you should inform her he was cheating on her. He was obviously in the car with another woman; however the paramedics, knowing the man and wishing to keep that a secret, covered it up with a story about him wanting to learn to ride a motorbike and crashing on his first attempt. Quite obvious really," Sherlock drawled. Molly stared in wonderment for a few moments before she nodded slowly.

"I should, um, change the report then?" she said and Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Yes," he agreed and she nodded, screwing up the old report and throwing it to the waste paper bin. It missed by a few centimetres and bounced off the wall.

"So, are you just here to say you're back then?" Molly asked, beginning to root around in a drawer for a new sheet.

"Yes," Sherlock said and, a few moments later, added, "Thank you."

It caught them both off guard and Sherlock wondered if John's politeness had rubbed off on him and he had said the wrong thing at the wrong time, which he could then blame entirely on John. Molly looked stunned but then apparently recovered, although she had stopped searching for the file.

"Thanks?" she said, "What for?" Sherlock didn't know quite what to answer that with for a moment, wondering why he had come out with it to begin with and eventually settled on the most truthful answer.

"For helping me to fake my death," he said, "Your help was, after all, invaluable." Molly smiled and it made her look like a puppy dog who was just happy to have pleased someone.

"Oh, it's okay," she beamed, "I mean, I hope you never have to do it again or anything, I mean, that'd be awful but, if you ever do, then I'm you girl… well, not actually your _girl, _you know, I meant… and I hope that it never does come around that you have to fake-"

"Your conversational skills haven't improved Molly," Sherlock interjected and she stammered to a halt. Sherlock knew he was being what John called rude, however Molly had a tendency to ramble if not stopped and despite it being a welcome normality, Sherlock never could tolerate it for long.

"Oh, right, sorry," Molly said and she gushed another smile, "I'll just shut up now." Sherlock gave a nod as she began searching for the file again and beaming when she found it. She was one of the dizziest and yet most happy morgue assistant Sherlock had ever known, however he didn't know exactly how jolly one could be as a morgue assistant, even when surrounded by a million different opportunities to experiment. 29 opportunities presented themselves simply with this body, Sherlock observed. It was a woeful waste of a body when they had to be buried.

"So, how did John take the news? He came around to the hospital you know, he quit his job. He came to see your… well, the body, I guess, but they wouldn't let him," Molly said, "I felt really bad for him. I wanted to tell him you know, but I knew you'd told me not to." Sherlock was surprised that Molly had been able to keep her mouth shut from telling John about him, however the mention of his flatmate made him scowl and he turned away to observe the body currently residing on the slab.

"What was that about you shutting up earlier, Molly?" he retorted quickly, immediately realising how harsh it had come out and wincing at Molly's hurt expression. He was often used to hurting her feelings but his response had come out more scathing than usual and he almost regretted it, however wasn't keen to bring the topic up again in order to remedy it.

"Sorry," Molly apologised quickly, "I just- I was worried about him. He didn't look too good when he came to the hospital apparently." Sherlock sighed.

"He was… shocked," Sherlock said, "He asked me why I had been away for so long and not told him and then called me a selfish bastard but other than that, it's been… fine." Molly's gaze was boring a hole into his back as he spoke and he could feel the concern as if it was a tangible force.

"You don't sound happy," she observed. Sherlock felt irritation rise in him and he kept himself from turning around to snap at her.

"It's fine," he growled.

"Sherlock, if you need to talk-"

"I don't need a therapist, Molly, I just came here to tell you I was back," Sherlock snapped but Molly didn't let up.

"He'll come round Sherlock, I'm sure it's just the shock," she continued and Sherlock rounded on her, spinning around to face her but was lost for the right words to say and so stood looking defiantly at her.

"Oh," she said and that one syllable seemed to encompass everything. Sherlock's anger dissipated as quickly as it had come.

"What?" he said, his eyes searching her face for a deduction to make.

"I didn't know, I'm sorry," she said. Sherlock frowned.

"What? You didn't know what?" Molly shrugged and put her pieces of paper on the desk beside her.

"I thought it was him that was still in shock, but um… you're still not okay with it," she said and Sherlock felt like he was back in that conversation before his final meeting with Moriarty, where she had compared him to her father, "I mean, you're still a little unsure of what to say and stuff, since you've come back. That's okay, I mean, you've been gone three months, so things don't always just slot back into place but…"

"But what?"

"I don't want to be rude," she said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Molly, just say it, whatever it is," he pressed. He was used to Molly just blurting things out, so her hesitation was unusual and it almost made Sherlock feel as if he had been cut off.

"You're pushing him away, aren't you?" she said finally and Sherlock stared at her in amazement. "That's okay," she said quickly, "I mean; I guess that's normal, you've been away so long but… I just think that John might appreciate it if you didn't, you know, push him away too much…" Sherlock couldn't think of what to say to that. Out of everyone who knew him, even John who perhaps cared the most for a detective whom no-one had ever really cared for, Molly had a knack of being able to catch the glances that no-one else did. It was the perfect explanation as to why Molly loved so easily. There was an old saying that said if you followed a person around for a day, saw everything they did, even when it was the silly things like talking to themselves when they thought they were alone, or singing in the shower, you could fall in love with them. However Molly was almost the personification of that idea. It was as if she could see the whole of a person, even what they didn't expect her to see, just by looking at their eyes. It was extraordinary.

"I haven't really been speaking to him like I normally do," Sherlock blurted out. It felt good. It felt amazing just to get that out there because there had been no-one to tell it to, even though it had been eating away at him since his return. Because, in all honesty, he was intentionally pushing John away and, with John being his only close friend, he couldn't tell anyone about it.

"I saw him… at my graveside," Sherlock admitted, "He was… distraught but I kept back and just watched. I had to keep the secret in order to keep everyone safe but, even now I'm back it's difficult. And I think I need to be distant. If I have to do something like that again, if I have to go missing again or something does in fact happen to me, then I'll have made the mistake of allowing a person close only to see them suffer because of something I have done."

It was the most truthful Sherlock had ever been. In his whole life, he would never have told anyone that and yet there was a rawness inside him that felt like a constant burn. He had grown complacent, he had allowed himself the luxury of a friend, just one in all his life and it was now coming back to haunt him and he was forced to tear himself away once again. He _had _to maintain the distance because if he didn't, people would suffer. People would always get hurt because of Sherlock Holmes.

"You know, for someone so smart, you can be really silly sometimes."

Sherlock blinked out of his thoughts, looking in surprise at Molly. She was smiling but it was a sad smile, almost pitying him and Sherlock felt himself silently object to the expression.

"You kind of get the whole concept of friendship in that you sort of instinctual want to look after him but it's sort of backfiring on you a little," she said, "I mean, you're putting distance between yourself and him so that he doesn't get hurt, which sort of seems like you want the best for him, but that's what you're missing."

"Enlighten me," Sherlock said sarcastically, trying to keep what little amount of his façade left up.

"Friendship's all about getting hurt," she said, "You get close to someone but then you argue and fall out or you… well, in this case, fake your own death and that's upsetting for the both of you but that's the ups and downs of friendship for you! It's the definition of being a friend, Sherlock; you've got to take the good with the bad. Even when it's really bad, like thinking your best friend is dead even when he isn't. I'm pretty sure John would appreciate his real friend back even if it means getting hurt again later on."

Sherlock was silent as Molly finished, tilting her head at him in pity. He hated the pity but he didn't say anything out loud as he was still soaking in Molly's sudden outburst. He was used to Molly's ramblings but usually very little of them had any relevancy, however right now, everything she had said seemed to have some grounding, even if Sherlock didn't understand it. Surely, the best thing to do would to be to avoid pain? And yet Molly's theory stayed sound in that, despite having to be alone for the past months and watching John suffer as he had, indescribably Sherlock still wanted to talk with John like they always had, to act the way he usually did.

"You think I should continue as if nothing has happened?" Sherlock said. Molly shook her head.

"I think you should just tell him how you feel and then just be yourself again," Molly said, "You've done it to me right now and it's worked just fine. John's been waiting for his best friend to come back and he's still waiting, I'm sure he'd be happy to know why he's not come back yet."

Sherlock digested the information, filing it away. It wasn't the first time Molly had given him advice or even a sound telling off but each word still seemed to resonate and he didn't say anything else for a long while, instead he continued to stare at the body, not sure if he could even describe his reaction to Molly's advice, much less voice it. All he knew was that he could see the truth in it. The evidence was all there. John was still trying, every day, to see some of the old Sherlock and the detective had noticed it, confused as to why John would still want to continue being friends after what Sherlock had done to him. And yet, Sherlock found himself also wanting to resume their normal friendship. He stored the thoughts away, determined to think of them another time and not now, when Molly's gaze was still locked on him.

"The ring," Sherlock said quietly. Molly frowned.

"What?" she said.

"The ring on that man's finger," he gestured to the large dead man, "It's no longer there. Meaning he removed it for his lover. He was definitely cheating on his wife. Quite simple." There was a long period of silence and he caught Molly smile from the corner of his eye, which he tried to ignore. She turned to pick up the fresh report and scribbled down something. He was lost, deep in thought, deductions mixed with thoughts of Molly's words and he almost missed the moment when Molly quietly spoke up from where she was stood, back to him at her desk.

"You're welcome Sherlock," she said softly.

* * *

_**A/N Okay, so sorry about the ending :S I dunno what you'll think of it, however please remember that I am posting another chapter tomorrow that *was* supposed to be part of this chapter, till this chapter got loooooong XD Next "chapter" will focus on John's investigation but won't count as a weekly update, simply a continuation of this. I'm not sure to what degree I like or dislike this chapter as although I hate some bits and like some bits of it and I sometimes think my Molly interpretation sucks, I feel that this chapter was vital. It reveals the reason for Sherlock's distance and what he's been feeling and I also really wanted him to have some interaction with Molly after his "death". **_

_**Anyway, long A/N is long so, thank you for reading! Reviews are my fave things in the world, so anything from criticism to suggestions to praise is much, much welcomed! Thanks again for reading and I'll see ya'll tomorrow!**_

_***Passes out into bed***_


	8. Questions

_**A/N Okay, second half as planned! (Well, another chapter really I guess XD) It's heavy on speech, so I apologise but involves lots of detective!Lestrade and detective!John XD **_

_**Disclaimer: The sun is up and I can see! It is rather unimpressive as I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that I sound like a sissy because it was not the sea. It was a duck pond. An empty duck pond at that, there aren't even any ducks, which is rubbish. However the good news is: The duck pond is in London! I am back in business my friends! Anyone got any suggestions on where to look for our mysterious Sherlock Holmes? He's got to be somewhere!**_

* * *

Lestrade's office was empty when John arrived at Scotland Yard that day. He had set off as soon as he was ready, worried that Sherlock would get home before him and wonder where he was. He had left a note of his own, explaining that he was out however he hadn't specified where and he knew that if he got home after Sherlock, he would have to explain himself.

It felt wrong, going behind Sherlock's back, however he felt like he couldn't take another day of Sherlock keeping things back from him. It was as if, inexplicably, Sherlock no longer trusted him. Which was impossible, of course, John thought. Sherlock had done nothing outwardly to make him feel as if he had lost faith in him and yet John could simply sense it. The pauses in conversation that held a little too long, the way that Sherlock could apparently laugh and joke with Lestrade and yet not him, how quiet Sherlock had been yesterday after meeting his father once again.

Sherlock's father was another addition to John's worries and he was yet unsure of exactly how to react to him. Sherlock seemed to want his father's approval, more than John had ever seen Sherlock want anybody's praise, even after all of his deductions or after solving a case, and he wondered if that was a good sign. He didn't know if Sherlock trusted Robert Holmes exactly, but he certainly admired the man. John didn't know if that was an endorsement enough, especially as very few people impressed Sherlock, however Lestrade's mistrustful aura around the eldest Holmes made John oddly wary of him, even with Robert's charming demeanour.

As if summoned by John's thoughts, John heard the door click open and he turned as Lestrade came through the door to his office, looking more tired than ever and rubbing his brow with an exhausted sigh. He didn't notice John at first, his gaze locked on the office carpet in apparent relief to be back in the sanctuary of his office, however he soon turned his eyes up and spotted John, jumping a little as he did, obviously startled at seeing someone else in his office.

"Christ John," Lestrade cursed, "You scared me half to death."

John gave an apologetic smile and a small shrug. Lestrade really did look terrible, perhaps even as bad as Sherlock looked and John felt, the divorce and the demotion obviously having taken more of a toll on the Detective Inspector. Despite this, the bags under Lestrade's eyes seemed to look less purple and John guessed that he had got more sleep last night than he had been doing. To his greater relief, he also saw a cup of coffee and a boxed sandwich balanced precariously in Lestrade's other hand, the sandwich box now soaked at the side due to Lestrade's startled jump, the coffee spilling out onto the container. _At least he's eating, _John thought and he felt as if he had to look after two children when it came to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Sorry," John said, "The guy from reception said that I could stay in here till you arrived."

"Who? Clark?" Lestrade said, frowning. John nodded and he sat down when Lestrade gestured for him too, seeing the D.I set the coffee and the sandwich on the table and hoping that he wasn't going to discard them.

"Yeah, I think so," John said. Lestrade sighed.

"He was supposed to be moving into training today, they'd better not be holding him back," Lestrade said and John saw him looking at the sandwich with disdain, recognising the small talk as a distraction from having to eat when he was obviously far too pent-up to do so, "He's one of the _ kids. They put him on reception until they could get him into training for the force but a lot of people just think he's a posh kid with no skills. I think he's a smart young lad. He's got potential."

Eventually the small talk seemed no longer a reasonable excuse to put off the sandwich and Lestrade sighed, opening the box. "You don't mind if I eat my lunch do you?" John shook his head. Lestrade gave a nod of thanks and bit into what looked like a tuna mayo concoction.

"He should be a good copper once he's passed training. If no-one else'll have him, he can come on my team," Lestrade said. John smiled. It sounded almost as if Lestrade was defending him; however John was certain that if Lestrade thought he was a good one, he most likely was. He knew that Lestrade was a good D.I and also that he vouched for the right sort of people. When everyone else had dismissed Sherlock, hated him even, Lestrade had been the one that had stood up for him and asked his help, given him a second chance even when he knew that Sherlock was a drug addict and rubbed up all of his officers the wrong way.

"I take it you're here about Sherlock then?" Lestrade said and John was a little taken aback by Lestrade's straight to the point observation, especially after his little off subject tirade.

"Yeah," John answered, "I think he's keeping something back." Lestrade gave a little chuckle.

"Sound like Sherlock all right. I thought you'd be coming to ask about his dad," Lestrade said. John thought about that. He _had_ been wondering about the type of men who had raised a person like Sherlock Holmes, he had wondered if he was as much like Sherlock in his day to day personality as he was in looks, but it had seemed less important compared to the events of the past few months.

"Why, is there something I should know?" John asked, eager to latch onto the subject, the need to put off the real reason for his being here for as long as possible growing stronger.

Lestrade finished off the first sandwich and stared at the other one with a clear question of how much it would upset his stomach to eat it displayed plainly on his face.

"Not really," Lestrade said with a shrug, "Seems like a normal bloke, which is weird considering he's Sherlock's dad and all. I'd expect him to be… weirder."

"Then how come you trust Sherlock and not his dad, if Sherlock's weirder?" John said, feeling a slight bit of defensiveness spring up despite the fact that he knew Lestrade meant it in a familial way. Lestrade seemed to notice the defensiveness and paused before he spoke again.

"I don't know to be honest," he admitted, "It's just… don't you think it's a bit…weird that after all this time looking for a way to clear Sherlock's name and he never mentioned once that he was his father? I mean, it just doesn't sit right."

John watched Lestrade pick at the other sandwich before he picked it up, taking a swig of coffee before he started. He looked like those thin business you sometimes got who were constantly too on edge and nervous to eat without feeling sick and he was certainly looking as if he would happily revisit his lunch at any time. Being a doctor, John had seen enough bodily fluids that they didn't faze him and so he felt more worried about Lestrade's health than the fact that he was in the danger zone from where he was sat.

"I mean, what kind of guy doesn't mention that his own son has just committed suicide?" Lestrade said, outraged. John nodded in understanding. He could see the gaps in the logic but something still told him to try and patch them over as best he could, perhaps because he knew that Robert Holmes meant something to Sherlock.

"Maybe he was worried he'd appear too close to the case and be taken off it? Or if he's like Sherlock he might not have thought it was necessary to mention it?" John reasoned.

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe," he said but it was obvious that he wasn't convinced and now John could feel doubt bubbling in his own stomach. It did seem strange that he wouldn't mention Sherlock being his son. Especially since, although it was unlikely, it was possible that he had information or at least an insight into Sherlock that could have aided the investigation.

"Anyway," Lestrade said, "you said you were here for something else?" John nodded, pushing down the worrying thoughts for later.

John nodded. "I've been thinking about the day that Sherlock, um… jumped," John said, words failing him on how to exactly describe that day when he had seen his best friend at the top of Bart's Hospital.

"Oh," Lestrade said simply and the silence lingered for a second as Lestrade took another sip of coffee. He had obviously been affected too; primarily by shock most likely, but then being a D.I meant that he had then been subjected to having to review the crime scene, take the heat for allowing Sherlock to consult, being constantly reminded of his friend as being a fraud. "Oh" didn't quite sound like enough and yet, at the same, it sounded overly too much for just one life.

"There's something he's not told me about it," John pressed on. Lestrade lifted his head.

"What is it?" he asked and John gave a short, hollow laugh.

"If I knew that I wouldn't be here. I just – I just think that he's holding something back, that's all. I think maybe it's just my imagination but I don't know," John confessed.

"I looked into the case myself," Lestrade said, "Before Robert Sherrin - Robert Holmes turned up and took over, I ran my own private investigation into it. I wanted to know if Sherlock had really jumped or if, maybe, he could have been pushed. I know you gave your statement in and I didn't doubt you, I just… I suppose I wanted to hope." The admission was quiet and filled with loneliness and from it John knew that Lestrade had been alone in his hope. No-one else had wanted to help him because they wanted Sherlock to be the villain. Sherlock would never know the extent to which Lestrade had fought tooth and claw for him after his "death", not even with all the deductive skills in the world.

"What did you find?" John asked and for a moment Lestrade didn't say anything and for a fleeting second, John believed that he would simply say "nothing" and it would all be his imagination and he could continue as if nothing had happened. He didn't know if he would be happy to hear the news or if the fact that Sherlock's distance was through something else and not a secret would make him feel worse. However, that decision was taken from him as Lestrade spoke.

"There was something else going on John, I was certain of it," Lestrade said and John didn't know if his stomach dropped or soared at that, "Moriarty was dead but the gun he had didn't misfire, no matter what the reports said. Sherlock says that Richard Brook was an alias, that it was only Moriarty which means that, if what I saw is right, Moriarty committed suicide on the top of Bart's Hospital."

John gaped at him. _Moriarty had committed suicide? _It didn't seem possible, someone who John had always thought as a calculating mastermind who would be all for self-preservation and yet, he had killed himself? He couldn't believe it but then, if someone had said the same thing about Sherlock Holmes to him four months earlier, he would not have believed that either.

"He killed himself?" John said, aghast. Lestrade nodded.  
"The wound was too precise, it was from the back of the mouth to the back of the head," Lestrade began.

"Which means that any misfire would have had to have gone in the opposite direction for it to be even plausible," John continued.

"And even then it is a statistical anomaly," Lestrade finished. John digested the information slowly.

"Why did no-one else pick up on that?" John said, shock filling his system.

"They did. The officers on the scene didn't care, Sherlock was the villain, it all looked neat to them, the perfect rounding off to a story and no-one questioned it until Robert Holmes came along," Lestrade supplied. John nodded. Of course people would want Sherlock to be the villain. It made for a better newspaper article, a better person to blame it on and, of course, it made those people that Sherlock had made look bad, which was a lot, sleep better at night.

"Why? Why would he do that?" John muttered.

"Who? The Chief Super?" Lestrade asked with a frown.

"No, Moriarty. Why would he kill himself? If he wanted Sherlock destroyed, he already had him beat with that article he faked. So why would he kill himself right before he had Sherlock beat?"

Both men were silent for a moment, each figuring through the problem, Lestrade working through it with police procedure, John using what he knew from Sherlock in order to reach the same goal.

"What if he didn't die in order to _make _something happen and instead killed himself so that something else _didn't _happen?" Lestrade offered. John blinked in confusion.

"Okay, that makes no sense at all," John said with a breath of laughter. Lestrade smiled and nodded in an "I'll give you that" fashion.

"Alright, so there's no reason why Moriarty would have to commit suicide in order to make something happen. He had contacts everywhere, if he wanted something to happen, he could get it done easy as sending a text; the news article is evidence of that," Lestrade began to explain, "But what if the only way that he could stop Sherlock from stopping him was to kill himself? If Sherlock had found a way to stop him and the only way to get around that, to beat Sherlock, would be to kill himself. I never met the bloke but he sounded mad enough to do that just so he could win."

John raised an eyebrow. It was an impressive theory and despite Sherlock's jibes, it was testimony that something other than dogged determination and persistence had gained Lestrade his position in the force. It certainly sounded like something Sherlock would do. To allow himself to be cornered but then pull out the ace in his sleeve and force Moriarty to do something equally as drastic. And Moriarty would indeed go that far in order to win.

"But what on earth would he have to kill himself to do? It must have been something Moriarty had that meant he couldn't live with it if Sherlock could get it from him, but what the hell could that be?" John said, speaking his thoughts aloud. Lestrade shrugged.

"The article maybe? Maybe it wouldn't be published if Sherlock could stop it," Lestrade suggested.

"I doubt Moriarty would leave something like that hanging on a loose end," he said, "But it sounds like the right track. I mean they both, sort of, died so they weren't doing it to save themselves"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that and leaned back in his chair with an overwhelmed sigh. John thought about what Sherlock would say if he saw them both here, trying to puzzle it over. He'd probably be jumping up and down and calling them idiots by this point before launching into an elaborate description of the conclusion he had come to. The thought made John smile and he forced himself back to the problem.

"So," Lestrade said, "They weren't in it to save themselves."

"So they must have been in for a bigger picture. Saving or destroying someone else," John finished the sentence. He remembered back to what Moriarty had said about buring the heart out of Sherlock. John didn't know what was in Sherlock's heart (he knew he had one, despite Sherlock's protests to the contrary) but John knew that his own heart was filled with people that he do anything to save and no matter how inhuman people claimed Sherlock was, John would always believe that what he said at Sherlock's grave was true. Sherlock was the most human human being that John knew and he was convinced that Sherlock's heart was also just as human as everyone else's.

"So, what, Moriarty killed himself and still no-one else got hurt? That doesn't make any sense," Lestrade said.

"Not unless Sherlock then stopped the order by faking his death. I don't know it's a work in progress," John argued, "I don't know, maybe Moriarty said that if he didn't jump he'd hurt someone and then he killed himself so Sherlock had to do it." Lestrade's eyes widened momentarily, taking it all in. The more John thought about it, the more he could fill in, the more it made sense. He still didn't know why Sherlock would hide that from him, but it made more sense than any other thought that had crossed his mind in all the time Sherlock had been missing.

Eventually, Lestrade broke the silence. "Bloody Hell, you don't think he threatened one of us do you?" Lestrade said. If it hadn't have been such a deadly notion, John would have laughed at Lestrade's outraged tone but the memory of the bomb vest strapped to him that Lestrade had never been informed of made him sober up immediately, knowing how real that threat really was. He shook his head and shrugged, unable to give an answer.

"If there is anything strange about anything after Sherlock disappeared, if any criminals turned up that hadn't been well known before, then I guess we could start pinpointing exactly what was being threatened," John said, "It could be any time in those three months. Just… anything strange."

"I can look into it," Lestrade said, "it might take a day or so, but I can see what I can find."

John thanked him but the atmosphere was subdued, the thought of how close both of them may have come to death that day and not known it making each of the men shiver. Sherlock would never know the extent to which his friends had defended him but, as always with friendship, it swung both ways and each of the men in Lestrade's office appreciated that Sherlock Holmes may have done something for them that they also may never know and yet had saved their lives.

"Thanks again, Greg," John thanked and he stood, everything inside him feeling cold as he did so. He gestured to the half-eaten second sandwich on the desk.

"I'll leave you to finish your lunch," John said, silently willing the D.I to take the hint and finish it off, giving him a look that made Lestrade look momentarily embarrassed that John had noticed before he nodded. John returned the gesture and turned to go.

"I'll keep an eye on Holmes senior," Lestrade promised him quickly, "So you just have to look after the younger one and keep him out of trouble." John laughed at that.

"Me? Keep Sherlock out of trouble? Greg, I don't think anybody could manage that, let alone me," John retorted and he gave Lestrade a wave goodbye as he left.

* * *

On his way home, John couldn't stop thinking about the conversation he had just experienced. It was surreal, to think that Sherlock had been forced to endure such a thing on his own and not only that, but had done it to protect someone else. The Sherlock Holmes that everyone else called heartless and inhuman and yet he had saved more lives than perhaps any of that, without ever asking for thanks or for payment. The Reichenbach hero.

He took out his phone, pulling his eyes from the view outside the taxi window.

_Have you talked to Sherlock? _He wrote and then, thinking for a second, he continued, _Your dad is in Scotland Yard. Why didn't you tell me? Did you know? Can you tell me anything about him? JW. _He read through it once and then picked Mycroft out of his phone book and sent it, waiting for the no doubt prompt reply.

John got all the way to Baker Street without a reply and he felt anxiety paw at his insides. Mycroft Holmes always replied. Without fail. Looking at his phone he felt his stomach twist in apprehension and he sighed before entering the flat. Either Mycroft was busy (which was more unlikely but John hoped that was it) or they were all in big trouble.

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_**A/N Thanks so much for reading, reviews are very, very welcome and I hope you all have a lovely week! Thanks again!**_


	9. Past

_**A/N Hello! Okay, so, I know, late again -_- However, in my defence I have just worked a 7.5 hour shift at work (*bleh*), it's now 1:40am and I have to be up at 6am tomorrow for a 6 hour drive down south :S Which brings me to my next point: I'm off on a surfing holiday this week so please excuse me if my fic is late (*again*) however I will try to get it out still on the Sunday! I'll send the monkeys out with my fic in coded form to be given to my homemade JARVIS type computer to upload it XD It also means that I will not be able to reply to reviews until Friday or Saturday, for which I am really, really, really sorry about D': I will try to answer them as soon as possible! **_

_**Third: Thank you SO MUCH to all the people who reviewed, alerted and favourite-d, especially you amazing reviewers! X) You make my day every time I read your reviews and you are held very dear to my heart, sincerely. To theimprobableone: Tell me about it, as you can tell from this author's note, jobs suck -_- I feel like the dude in Indiana Jones 3 who chooses the wrong Holy Grail and gets the life sucked from him -_- (I hope you've seen Indie 3 or else I just sound weird… :S If you haven't seen it, see it, it's great XD) There's more on the father in this chapter too, so I hope you like X) Also, my monkeys probably did harass them, they harass me all the time! *Help me, I'm being held hostage o.O* I need to find a way to train them :/ **_

_**Anyway, I'm a wee bit nervous about this chapter but, at any rate, I hope you enjoy it!**_

_**Disclaimer: After rowing back to the shoreline, I realised that I am not only in London, but am in the gardens of Her Majesty herself! Unfortunately, despite her being a fabulous sport and saying how disappointed she was that Mycroft had not removed Sherlock's blanket altogether while at the palace, I made the mistake of allowing her corgis and the monkeys to meet -_- **_

_**God bless the Corgis that fell during the battle, may they ever be remembered and let their spirits be present at my execution, which is due this Sunday, after tea and cake at 12:30pm.**_

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Mycroft would be home soon, not that Sherlock was waiting for it. His brother was at his after school politics class, which meant that he would be home in about an hour or so. If anything, Sherlock felt more anxious about Mycroft coming home because he knew that Mycroft would ask questions about the bruise on his cheek that he had been given by one of the boys in his class who had called him a "freak" again. He knew that Mycroft would want to go speak to the boy, he always did and Sherlock would always have to try and persuade him not to.

Sherlock wished that mother would get home. Mother wouldn't ask questions, she'd know better than to ask, simply to know that Sherlock would sort it out in his own mind and instead she would simply clutch him to her until he told her he was okay, like he always did. However, mother was out at one of those charity dinner things and wasn't going to be home until late meaning that Sherlock was going to have to sit here in his bedroom with a throbbing, quickly purpling eye and, most of all, only his boredom to keep him company.

In a weird way, he sort of missed Mycroft when he wasn't at home. Not badly and not that he would ever admit it, but in some sort of manner, Mycroft's absence was noticeable to Sherlock. The rooms in the house seemed bigger, each creak louder and Sherlock noticed things more, like the smudges on the window that told him that mother had been watching him pick snails in the garden for his experiments, the slight scuffing of the thread on the carpet that said Mycroft had stormed upstairs sometime this week and slammed his door.

Sherlock didn't know if it was a bad thing that Mycroft distracted him from his deductions, people in general did, especially when, like Mycroft, they were trying to keep his attention from searching into things, deducing and making his mind work. He should be annoyed that Mycroft wanted him to play in the living room instead of trying to dissect a beetle in his bedroom but there was that look that Mycroft gave him sometimes that excused it. It was an almost proud look, that Mycroft wasn't just proud of Sherlock for his brains or his intuition, instead, he thought Sherlock was smart regardless of any of that. Sherlock couldn't quite understand that, deduction after all was something Mycroft was good at too and wasn't the whole point of being smart so that you could show other people what they were missing? What was the point of being intelligent if no-one knew it?

Sherlock swung his legs, his bed creaking as his body rocked forward. _Bored, _he thought. If there was anything Sherlock hated more than the stinging in the bruise on his eye, it was the fact that he was both alone and bored. No-one to conclude information from, nothing to entertain him. Just the creaking of the walls in the house that was too-old, too-broken and too-boring. Sherlock had once convinced himself that if one were to listen close enough, to put their ear to the woodwork they would be able to hear it speak. It was a silly notion, completely irrational but Mycroft had told him that all wood came from trees, which were, after all, living organisms and therefore the logical conclusion to draw would be that they had a language.

Perhaps it was a language all of their own that he couldn't yet understand. If trees could bleed sap when you cut them, surely they could feel? And if they breathed and reproduced and thought enough to sap in nutrients and grow taller to reach the sun, then why would it be so illogical to assume that they could whisper? _Maybe that's something I could do,_ Sherlock thought, _I could take a sample and then try to see if I could decipher what it is saying. I could spy on Mycroft, get the walls and floors to tell me where Mycroft's been or what mother is doing or what father is working on-_

Sherlock stopped his train of thought, frowning. He knew that father was in the house, somewhere. Father worked from home sometimes, preferring to be surrounded by his collection of war novels and autobiographies of famous political leaders than the "idiots" at Scotland Yard. Sherlock found that to be a little harsh as, from what Sherlock could see, although the people at Scotland Yard were technically idiots, they tried their best with the intelligence they had. Even if that intelligence was limited, Sherlock saw people being arrested on the news all the time and sometimes they even managed to solve one or two of the more difficult cases by themselves without using any deductive methods and instead using profiling and science and detective "legwork" as Mycroft called it when he saw it on the news channel. Sherlock had snorted the milk he was drinking back into his glass at that because imagining Mycroft doing anything more than walking was funny. Mycroft even got out of P.E because he had forged a note from mother and had promised to take away Sherlock's lab equipment if he told her. Sherlock didn't tell but he often mentioned the school running team at dinner, earning a delighted sound from mother and a glare from Mycroft and Father respectively, if for slightly different reasons.

Sherlock didn't know exactly what made him stand up and leave his room. He imagined it was part boredom, part curiosity as to what Father was doing. Sherlock had to be doing _something _or he felt like his mind would rot with stagnation, a word that Mycroft had been impressed he could use at his age but Sherlock told him it was simple literacy and if he spent more time looking up words than forging notes from mother he wouldn't be saying what a big word "stagnation" was. Sherlock returned home from school that day to find his science kit gone and immediately blamed Mycroft for it. He looked down the hall where he now stood, past the large rug thrown on the floor and the set of ancient looking Chinese drawers on the right to the door towards the end. Mycroft's room. Sherlock almost turned to walk in that direction, feeling like, despite the questions he would be asked, even giving in to having Mycroft comfort him at this point in time would be bearable because the bruise below his eye was beginning to sting like a bee was lodged in it and it was making his eye water uncontrollably as he began to walk down the hall, placing his back to Mycroft's door and moving forwards to where the stairs created a landing on a right angle to the corridor.

"Father?" Sherlock's voice sounded too loud, even in the large space. The house was decorated well enough and mother always kept it nice however it was far too big for the four of them to live in, even when family came to visit and relatives Sherlock had never even heard of came to stay with them. It had been an inheritance from his father's parents and mother had never had the heart to sell it.

"Father?" Sherlock said again, his voice smaller this time. Nobody replied and he felt disappointment rise in his chest. Maybe Father was too busy and didn't want to be disturbed? That would make sense, Father was busy a lot and Sherlock often didn't see him during the day as his father would often remain in his study for the whole day, mixed in with case files and sheets of numbers that Sherlock couldn't understand and books of criminals and lists and receipts and all the other work that Father had to do because it was important. Robert Holmes was an important man after all.

Sherlock crept up to the study door, pleased to see that it was slightly ajar. _Distance between door and frame means that Father was definitely the last person to enter here, mother didn't even kiss him goodbye before she left, _Sherlock deduced. The thought seemed troubling for a moment, the idea of mother simply walking out of the house without saying goodbye felt odd, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit. He vaguely wondered if he should be worried about it, if Mother and Father were arguing again but, surely, if they were, Mycroft would tell him about it. He shook off the thought, peering into the crack and surveying the study.

The door was open enough for him to be able to sidle gently in and he carefully nudged himself forwards so that he stood just on the precipice of the room, looking in at the silhouette of his father working in the lowlight of the lamp on his desk. Sherlock felt his chest surge with pride. Father, although a relatively thin and wiry man, looked like a leader as he sat, straight-backed, in his leather chair, exhuming confidence as if he breathed it. That was one thing about Father, he was always confidence. Always sure of himself, so convinced that he was right, that everyone else was an idiot simply because they didn't possess the intelligence he had. It was something that Sherlock admired, the surety with which his father held himself was intoxicating, mesmerising to a boy as young as Sherlock.

"Sherlock." Sherlock's heart stopped beating for a split second and it was enough time for panic to flood him as father's authoritative tone filled the room. It filled it in a way that was suffocating, like the whole place was simply waiting for the older Holmes to speak, not daring to contain air or sound or warmth when he spoke.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in here?" Sherlock's mind flitted to everything he could say. _I wanted to see if you needed help. Or if you wanted anything. I'm just here to say that Mother and Mycroft will be home soon. I'm lost, it's a big house, the walls said here was where I should go._

"I- my eye hurts," Sherlock said, unable to stop himself. It was understandable. In any of the books Sherlock reads, a small boy, pain radiating from his face and all alone in his room, would go to his father and tell him all about it and that would solve everything, like magic, yet Sherlock could only groan at himself in disgust as he realised what he had said. Why had he told the truth? He sounded weak now, useless.

Robert Holmes did not speak for a long period of time, jotting something down in fountain pen and then typing something up slowly, unhurried. Sherlock heard the clink of ice cubes as he saw his father's arm move, a glass of whiskey or other alcohol no doubt in his grasp. Sherlock felt his stomach drop and he felt wary, mind racing to put together every little piece of information in the room. Father normally drank alcohol while working, it was normal, yet for some reason it still made him feel uneasy. Sherlock knew Father hadn't really meant to hurt him, it had only been once after all but the remembered smell of whiskey, Mycroft yelling at their father, a sudden, screaming pain in his back and the realisation that he was screaming too, rubbing his throat raw with the sound and choking him as it finished, made Sherlock's spine shiver.

"Come here, Sherlock," he heard the older Holmes say suddenly and, putting an instinctive hand to the now swelling black eye, he carefully shuffled forwards, his father's face coming into sight, as pointed and piercing as ever, eyes shooting straight into where Sherlock could feel his soul quake. He stopped, stood in front of the man and he looked up at him, trying to match him stare for stare, to look at him with the same confidence that his father had but eventually he was forced to look away under the punishing gaze. His father gave a huff of derisive laughter and a grunt, turning back to his desk to type something up. Another scribble of fountain pen. One more swig of whiskey before he refilled the glass from a half empty bottle on the side. _He's been working all day, _Sherlock reasoned.

His father turned back to him.

"Is that it?" Sherlock's arms felt like they were prickling with goose bumps, the tone sounding altogether dangerous and uncaring at the same time. Sherlock didn't know what was worse. At least to be dangerous, one must feel something towards someone in order to make them that way. At least dangerous meant that father felt enough to be angry with him.

"I- I didn't-" Sherlock didn't even know what to say. "I'm sorry" seemed almost appropriate but he felt weak enough as it was, vulnerable and it was the reason why he didn't mention the fact that it had been some kid at school that had hit him.

"Get out." Sherlock blinked, his swollen eye twinging at the action and making it water even more. Sherlock hoped that it wouldn't make him look as if he was crying, especially in front of father.

"Father-" Sherlock jumped when he heard the whiskey glass slam to the table, some of the liquid splashing out of it, onto the floor.

"I am busy, Sherlock. Get out," his father growled and the tone reverberated, the whole room seeming to rumble with it. Sherlock opened his mouth once and then closed it, a mixture of anger, respect and fear intertwining in his head to create a block of silence that momentarily cut off the words he wanted to say from reaching his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude, Father," Sherlock said, finally, his voice not quite stuttering over the words but nevertheless sounding hesitant.

There was another pause and for a moment Sherlock thought that father had forgotten that he was even there as it was a long while till he spoke again.

"Sherlock, go find your brother, get out of my sight," he said smoothly, nothing but boredom in his tone.

"Mycroft isn't at home, he's-"

"Sherlock, I don't care! For Christ's sake, just get out of my sight Sherlock." Even when cursing, the older Holmes sounded dignified and although the tone was still crackling with fury and danger, it was still slow paced and low, commanding.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his heart beating fast and his stomach twisting with disappointment. Why wouldn't he just _listen _to him? He looked up at the man that looked so much like him and yet he would never become and it felt almost like an ant looking up at a human, a man looking up at God and wondering why he had yet to answer his prayers.

"I can help," Sherlock choked out. He heard the bones in his father's hand crack as his fist tightened around his pen.

"I thought I told you to leave, Sherlock. If you continue to disobey me, Sherlock, there will be consequences."

Sherlock tensed and quickly hid his face, his other eye springing forward tears and he wasn't sure if it was fear of frustration that made his vision blur so suddenly.

"I can help with your cases," Sherlock said quietly, "I know the ones you're working on, I can see some of the papers. I can help you." Sherlock heard his father laugh and he cringed, his head hanging low as he waited for what he would say.

"And how, precisely, would you manage that, Sherlock?" the older Holmes sneered.

"The same way I helped in that case last month… the one with the cat and the lady," Sherlock said and he felt the words slip from his tongue like a story. It sounded like the title of a book "The Cat and the Lady". Naming the case felt strange but at the same time it reminded him of the detective novels Mycroft had bought him for Christmas last year. He'd read them all, some of them more than once and they all had names like that. _The murder in the churchyard. The case of the bottled lily. The shadowed man. _They always sounded better when they had a title like that.

He waited and eventually, his father turned and for the first time it felt almost as if he had his attention.

"Okay then, Sherlock, go on. What's the big clue?" Sherlock looked at the desk, the scattered files, staring at the pictures for a short time, reading the files carefully.

"The dressing gown," he said eventually and the deduction spoken out loud sounded like a revelation even to him.

"What about it?"

Sherlock paused and looked at his father and he could see the difference, the sudden change that was all at once thrilling and terrifying. His eyes looked brighter, more interested and zealous than Sherlock had ever seen them, growing more and more interested as Sherlock recounted his findings, discussing that the dressing gown had no holes in it and the sink was blocked and of course, _of course _that meant that it was the sister who did it. And yet, Father, for all his brains, was looking at him as if it was an epiphany and Sherlock could barely believe it as every passing moment Father looked more and more as if he would any moment congratulate him, scoop him up and tell him he was sorry and it was okay and he was brilliant-

_Brilliant. _He looked at his father. The emotionless mask, the unfeeling attitude, it all seemed so mystifying and yet, Sherlock could identify with it, that need to be better, that need to be smarter. It wouldn't take much to be like that. People were confusing and Sherlock was already far enough away from them as it was, the only thing holding back being faith. Misguided, misjudged faith in _people. _That people were essentially good, or tried to be, and that that was more important than intelligence and pride, yet so far he had yet to have proof of it. All he had to show from "faith" was a black eye and a burrowing sense of disappointment in his gut. The only thing standing between him and Father was faith and how strong could faith be? How many people would even care if little Sherlock Holmes stopped hoping for miracles? For people and, most ridiculous of all, awaiting the notion that someone would be stupid enough to care for a person born like he was. Different.

Of course, Mycroft would care, but then, Mycroft always cared. And in any other situation, surely, that should be enough. And yet, it wasn't. Mycroft was his brother and he was there even when he didn't want him but that was just Mycroft being Mycroft, same old worrying Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his father. All that stopped that pride in his eyes from being permanent was a mistaken sense of loyalty, to an idea that had yet to prove itself even once. All that stood between him and Father accepting him was a thing called "trust" and a lie called "faith".

Sherlock looked up at his father's eyes and matched them stare for stare.

* * *

_**A/N Crummy ending that sounds like a bad horror movie but this chapter posed issues for me -_- With only two characters (one being a young!character and one being an OC… that feels weird calling him an OC, he feels different to an OC to me… :S) it was a little challenging but I hope it wasn't *too* bad, I'm a smidgem worried about this chapter, I dunno if I got it quite right :/ I think there are a few nice deep things in there though so I hope that's enough XD Sorry for the shorter length this time, I know it's still kinda long but the shorter-ness comes from the fact that I didn't really want to say much in this chapter and yet wanted to say loads at the same time, if that makes sense? I only had one message to get across but in lots of different ways :S Meh :/**_

_**Anyway, thanks to everyone for reading! Reviews and criticism and tips and anything else are much appreciated but if not, till next time, thanks again!**_


	10. Please

_**A/N Alright, alright, so I am REALLY late. I did mention last time that I was going surfing and it is the reason why this late as I've only had a small amount of spare time to write it in :S I was going to post last night, however I was so tired that I just zonked out as I'd only had 2 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours, which is small even for me. So I apologise MASSIVELY for the delay *begs forgiveness*:/**_

_**Thanks again so much to everyone who read and reviewed and favourite-d and alerted, especially to my wonderful reviewers, you make my writing worthwhile and my weeks worth waiting for! XD Also, Cainchan, I will be checking out (finally) and replying to your message soon as I unfortunately have been working a lot (I has work tonight too :/) and it's been manic D': So, never fear my wonderful one, I am here!**_

_**Well, with no more further ado, (I'm already late D':), here's the chap my dearies! **_

_**Disclaimer: The execution went better than originally planned. The axe fell perfectly, our Majesty was well pleased and all in all, everything was great… until they discovered they had chopped off the head of my dummy double I had made with straw from my cell, a few trained rats from the tower and a "Happy execution day!" balloon I was given most kindly by the guard! Haha! Running to the Punch Bowl in London where I hope to hide and to ask Robert Downey Jr's Sherlock Holmes (presuming he is boxing there today) where our Sherlock is! To the pub!**_

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The day was warm, the sun having hit its highest point already by the time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had arrived at the field containing the dead couple. It was uncharacteristically warm for London, even at this time of the year and John was sweating despite the fact that he had been forced to put on something lighter today. However, in the scheme of things, that came lower down in his list of priorities as, from what he could see, the couple had been dead for a little over a weak and had subsequently been here ever sense and, quite frankly, the sun was doing nothing but worsening the already biting smell they were now emitting.

Lestrade had called John, not Sherlock, at first. Well, called was a relative term as Lestrade had given John a tentative text asking about how Sherlock was and then responded to John's answer with asking if Sherlock wanted to help on a case, to ease him back in. It was only then that Lestrade had called and Sherlock had pouted that he had called John and not him, drawing his dressing gown around him like an Edwardian villain and watching sullenly from the sofa. John had grinned at that. Same old Sherlock, petulant as ever and yet if John told him that, he'd receive Sherlock's indignant fury.

It turned out in the end that the case had been Superintendent Bob Sherrinford's idea and although John could hear the disgruntled quality to Lestrade's voice, it had done nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of Sherlock's acceptance and John had only a quiet apology to offer as any form of compensation.

"Well, as much as I hate it, we do need him on this one John. A dog walker found the bodies this morning and if we don't get it solved fast, people are going to think we're too busy with this Sherlock thing to do our jobs. As yet we're stumped," Lestrade had admitted on the phone as Sherlock had dashed off to find something or other. John thought he heard the words "riding crops" but had simply shaken his head and carried on his conversation.

"Sherlock thing?" he asked, "You mean, Sherlock coming back?"

"People at the Yard are up in arms about it, if we should trust him, what if he is still a fraud, stuff like that. There was gonna be a big meeting about it but the Super went all the way to the top with it before they got the chance and they approved using Sherlock on a consulting basis once again," Lestrade explained. John raised his eyebrows and let out a whistle. Sherlock may not be a people person but apparently his father was and he knew how to cut to the heart of a situation.

"You might want to skip this one out John, it's a bit grizzly," Lestrade's voice crackled from down the phone. John noticed that he sounded less tired and the lack of graininess to it made him sound healthier.

John gave a small, humourless laugh, "I think I've seen grizzly enough in Afghanistan to manage but thanks anyway," John said. Lestrade gave an understanding grunt.

"Well, it might do him some good if you're there anyway, be like old times," Lestrade said. From his tone of voice, John couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.

"Yeah," John agreed, "A murder will do him a world of good." To say that about anyone else but Sherlock Holmes would sound sick and insane and yet to say it about Sherlock felt completely normal, welcome in fact.

At this very moment, however, the phrase felt much less welcome as John tried to ignore the smell still emanating from the couple despite having been given the balm to smear under his nose in order to block out the smell, a feeling of absolute pity being the overwhelming emotion in his gut. They were a young couple; perhaps only in their late twenties, not yet even married and here they were, side by side with one bullet each to stop their lives short. John couldn't help but feel pity towards them, wondering how much longer they could have been left here if the walker had not taken this path today.

Sherlock, however, as usual, seemed to be unaffected by the smell and John saw Sally Donovan's face turn up in disgust as he had shown up on the crime scene, refusing the balm and instead diving into his deductions with vigour. John had stayed close by, not oppressively so, giving Sherlock his space for his deductions. John could see Robert Holmes standing close to Sherlock, closer than John was, watching him like a hawk. John didn't know what to make of it, whether the older man was there to help Sherlock back on his first case as a reassigned consultant or because, like the rest of the officers here, he was partly here to watch the freak show return to town, as Sally Donovan put it. John tried not to focus on that, instead focusing on watching Sherlock and taking in the almost comforting, familiar sight of Sherlock at work_. He looked comfortable here, like he always used to be and he seemed to fit into the scene like a piece of a painting that always drew your eye. Although crime seemed to always step ahead of Sherlock Holmes, like an eager dog trying to keep in front of his master, John knew that this was where Sherlock felt most comfortable, in the world of the macabre and the dangerous and it was the most at ease John had seen Sherlock since he had returned. He didn't want to interrupt it._

"This couple," Sherlock said, "were part of a con." It had been only a few seconds since Sherlock had first laid eyes on the two bodies and even John was surprised at the speed of the deduction. Sherlock looked to his father, stood with his arms folded only a few paces away from Sherlock, observing him closely, to John over his shoulder.

"A con?" John said, surprised, both at the absurdity of the comment and at the speed of it, faster than he had ever seen Sherlock work. He wondered if something had happened to sharpen the already razor intellect during his period away or if Sherlock was simply particularly eager to impress, both the officers he now found himself judged by, John who had not seen him in so long and, of course, his watchful father. "How do you suppose that?" John asked.

Sherlock repeated his glances, looking at John and then his father this time, his eyes falling calculatingly at his father, where they lingered for a few seconds. John had not asked as to why the Superintendent had come here, it seemed below him, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt and to assume that he was here to see his son at work for, presumably, the first time.  
"The woman," Sherlock said, spreading his arm to point at her dramatically, "Undergoes changes to her physical appearance daily, as evidenced quite simply by the marks around her hair line, where spirit gum glue would be applied to keep a wig secured properly, her eyes are red where she has been wearing contact lenses excessively, the way she had put together her outfit makes it appear as if she is to change clothes at some point today."

Sherlock pointed to each detail as he spoke them, face intense and so utterly Sherlock that if John had not been stood at a crime scene, he would have laughed. _Quiet, _he remembered saying once, _we can't giggle, it's a crime scene. _He felt sadness tug at his heart. Sherlock hadn't laughed almost at all since he had returned, even with John.

"So, she could be an actor, but that would mean she should be at rehearsals at the time of day you said she died as West End season is almost done and they would be frantically preparing with every second. So a small time actress maybe? No, they wouldn't bother using spirit gum glue for wigs or lenses, especially glue as expensive as that appears to be. Therefore, she changes her appearance often but isn't an actress, so it's presumable that she could be conning someone," Sherlock concluded. John raised an eyebrow, following the logic but he was even more astounded than usual by the jump from nothing to deducing who this woman was.

Lestrade, who was lingering just in Watson's peripheral view obviously found it as amazing as he did as his mouth dropped open a little as he listened in, shooting John a look that he didn't return. John knew that Sherlock wanted an audience, whoever that may be, as he always did and if it helped make Sherlock look as relaxed as he was now, then it was worth giving him his undivided attention to see the spark flaring in Sherlock's eye again. Robert Holmes didn't move or give any indication of surprise or that he was impressed and John saw Sherlock shoot a quick glance at his father, almost too fast to be noticed, but John was watching close enough to catch it. Sherlock… was trying to impress his father? Of all the people he imagined wanting their father's approval, Sherlock was nowhere even near that list and yet, for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock looked like a child showing a painting to a parent, desperate for praise.

"Then of course, the man is evidence of a con too, neat, cautious, more money than someone with his position might normally have. You can see he's only a lifeguard at a local pool, from the identification card in his pocket, so doesn't get paid much and yet he has expensive clothes and a costly hair cut," Sherlock highlighted. He waited, watching the three men around him as they digested it, waiting as with an air of annoyance and impatience that he always carried with him on a crime scene.

John took the second to glance at the older Holmes man, his expression still stoic and unchanging, still watching Sherlock with hawk-like intensity. John looked to his left and saw Lestrade mentally working through the scene, applying Sherlock's logic.

"Well, what con were they pulling?" Lestrade frowned, "Whatever it was looks to have worked" John nodded, looking at the lady's expensive dress, the man's designer suit and cringing. It had done them no good in the end .Their money had failed to protect them.

"The question is not _what _con, but _who _were they working for?" Sherlock said. He waited for input, looking incredulously at them when he got none, only blank faces meeting him. "Oh come on!" he cried, "It's simple! A lifeguard and someone too inexperienced to cover up their mistakes, they're obviously not exactly seasoned criminals!"

"Then, you're saying someone hired them to carry out the con?" John said, amazed. Sherlock rolled his eyes in a large gesture and John had to stop himself from feeling too offended at it. It was annoying, perhaps one of Sherlock's most annoying traits, but he knew that it was both not as much of an insult as people would think and it was also practically impossible for Sherlock to resist the urge to let loose on someone, usually Anderson, if at all possible.

"Think John, think! Just stop for a minute and forget everything useless in that brain of yours and just think! Who would be able to orchestrate something like this without the need to be paid lots of money for it, someone who wouldn't mind being paid from a lifeguard's measly salary in order to watch them flounder?"

John frowned, confused for a second before his mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait- Wha- Moriarty?" John exclaimed. He heard Lestrade make a sound near to him that seemed midway between a gasp and a choked sound of surprise. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile, insanely proud looking and excitable.

"Of course John! Moriarty!" the detective cried, throwing his arms in the air.

"But, wait, Moriarty's dead," Lestrade said, confusing evidently plastered on his face, "We found the body, he's… he didn't do what you did, did he?"

Sherlock stopped dead, looking at Lestrade as if he had spontaneously grown another head and John held back a groan, daring not to think what Sherlock was going to say to him.

"Do you practice stupidity, Lestrade or does it come naturally?" Sherlock said and John cleared his throat meaningfully, shooting a murderous stare in Sherlock's direction, sending him daggers in the hope of pinning down any further insults. Sherlock looked at him and for a second he looked like a mix of a scolded puppy and a toddler wanting to ask permission to do something again. John shook his head. _Don't you dare, _the gesture said.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes as if the slow pace of his audience was making him tired and he drew in a slow inhale, like he was preparing to explain quantum physics to a class of small children.

"Moriarty's plans were still in place when he died. He was caught by surprise, not intending to leave things with loose ends, such as the people he was 'helping', like these people. He died and these people were left with the cons still in place and money belonging to James Moriarty in their banks," Sherlock said slowly. Lestrade blinked and the thoughts coalesced visibly on his face.

"Oh," he said. John saw Robert Holmes from the corner of his eye, catching the roll of his eyes and the exasperated look and he felt a spark of anger bubble in him. Why it was okay for Sherlock to be rude to both him and Lestrade and not his father seemed unfair and inexplicable even to him but for some reason, it riled him that the older Holmes showed disrespect to Lestrade, even though he was his superior.

"So, why were they killed?"

It was the first time Robert Holmes had spoken since John and Sherlock had arrived and Sherlock turned to look at him instantly; standing that little bit taller and John would have laughed at the strangeness of it if it didn't concern him so much. Sherlock never sought approval from anyone, not even from John, as far as he knew and yet this man, who seemed to be as unaffectionate as Sherlock himself, seemed to be someone Sherlock wanted to please more than anyone.

"Someone wants to clean up Moriarty's mess, so to speak, what was left after he was gone. That means, taking the money, hence the lack of bank cards in either of their pockets and to eliminate the loose ends," Sherlock said promptly, a glow of pride to him as he summed up his deductions. His father's eyes surveyed him and he stepped forwards a step, looking no longer at Sherlock, but at the bodies.

"They were a crack shot, whoever did this," the older Holmes said, looking intently at the bodies. "Dead before they hit the ground, using only two bullets."

"A sniper shot," Sherlock explained, "From other there." He gestured to a gathering of low trees to their left, tracing a line back, as if tracing an invisible bullet, back to where the couple had been standing. John blinked, backtracking.

"A sniper? You mean, like the ones back at the pool, where little Carl died?" he exclaimed. Just thinking about that night made his hands feel shakey and he could almost feel the bomb vest constricting him once again, an experience he knew he'd never forget, for as long as he lived.

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty had many snipers in his employ, allowing him to get close to his enemies while still being as far from them as possible. I tracked several of them during my absence," he explained. John's mouth went dry instantly and he gaped, not caring who saw his dumbstruck look.

"What? You did _what_? Why?" John spluttered, barely able to get all of his questions out at once. He thought for a moment about Sherlock, wherever he had been, on his own, tracking Moriarty's snipers, wherever they had been and felt a mix of guilt and fear rise in him, fear that was too little, too late, for Sherlock's safety as although he knew that he was back, safe, he could still feel the choking sensation of terror when he thought about where his best friend had been for those months, guilt at the fact that he hadn't been there with him.

Sherlock merely shrugged and John added it to the list of "things most annoying about Sherlock Holmes". Somehow, Sherlock expected him to believe that a simply shrug would be enough, like he hadn't just told John how dangerously he had been living or how deep into Moriarty's world he had been, and instead had simply told him how they were out of milk at the flat, perhaps and John was expected to simply accept it.

"Moriarty's men had to be stopped, especially in order to stop things like this happening," Sherlock said and he gestured to the murdered couple, the cold barrier drawn up tightly around him, showing no feelings towards the corpses at all as he looked at them.

"Sherlock, you could have been killed! Why didn't you call for my help, Sherlock-"

John was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly and John's head snapped round to look at Robert Holmes, who was waiting patiently for silence to fall.

"Dr Watson, if you would, now is not the time to discuss such matters, I'm sure you understand," he said, almost apologetically, "Sherlock has done a wonderful job here of deducing the nature of this crime. It should narrow down our search. Lestrade, we're looking for a sniper who worked with Moriarty."

"Moran," Sherlock said softly. The three men around him fell silent, looking at him questioningly. "His name," he said, "is Sebastian Moran, an army sniper who was a… colleague of Jim Moriarty's." John noted how Sherlock had not used the word "friend" and wondered if it was because Jim Moriarty simply did not have friends, not even anywhere close to, or, more worryingly, because if Moriarty had friends, Sherlock would feel too similar to him. Sherlock had admitted to John that he was considered a friend, something that Moriarty did not have, the one thing he would forever lack that Sherlock Holmes had both an advantage and a disadvantage in.

"He was the only man I failed to identify during my disappearance," Sherlock said quietly, too quietly for John's liking, especially when only a few moments ago, Sherlock had been comfortable and relaxed, at least by Sherlock's standards, "Every other sniper was relatively easy to locate, however this one man succeeded in evading my attempts at finding him." John realised that he was still gaping at Sherlock and quickly closed his mouth. He couldn't believe what Sherlock was telling him. That he had put his life on the line all that time, without telling him. That he may have been in danger and there was nothing to be done about it. The days in which John could have protected him were gone and he knew that the only wounds he could heal now where the ones that were still left internally on his friend. Sherlock may not have admitted it but with each passing day it was becoming clearer that there was more to his disappearance than he was letting John know.

"Excellent work boy," John heard Sherlock's father say and he watched the pride momentarily sweep Sherlock's face, the faint hope that left as quickly as it came, "Lestrade, if you wouldn't mind including in your report that Sherlock provided invaluable information to us and that further use of his consulting methods are highly recommended. Now, if you wouldn't mind asking forensics to return here to finish their work, I would be grateful." The tone was strong and allowed no questions or objection and John would have left as quickly as Lestrade had if the man was his superior. He could feel Lestrade's suspicion of Robert Holmes as if it was a palpable thing however Lestrade obeyed the order instantly, hurrying off to find the forensics team.

John watched him go, aware that the two men he now found himself with were both incredibly different and the same all at once. He knew that both men were intelligent and no doubt, at this very moment in time, they would both be analysing and deducing from the body in front of them. However, where he knew Sherlock, he didn't know Robert and he found himself watching him warily as Sherlock continued deducing, John making his own attempt at working out more about the person he was looking at.

Every few moments, after Sherlock made one more brilliant deduction, his father would nod, sometimes inputting a noise of approval, perhaps a sentence or so, only one, to express that he was impressed with what Sherlock was doing and, as John had already guessed he would, Sherlock's eyes grew hopeful every time, pushing his deductions further and further. Yet, when John looked back to Robert, the pride, no matter how hard John looked, had yet to reach his eyes. There was yet to be the smile that John gave Sherlock, encouraging him on as he worked, or the incredulous gaze from Lestrade that often only suited to increase Sherlock's ego even more. Even Mycroft raised an eyebrow once or twice, when Sherlock solved a particularly different crime or sometimes he even once or twice had told Sherlock to continue in his deductions, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement, by pointing out something he may have missed.

Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket, stopping him mid speech and he glowered at his pocket as if it had spoken to him and offended him in some way. Giving an irritated click of his tongue, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and disconnected the call. John had to stop himself from heaving a sigh. Whoever had called Sherlock now either didn't know he had a case or was desperate enough to need him now as Baker Street could be burning to the ground and Sherlock Holmes would still not pick up his phone to hear about it if he was on a case. Then again, Sherlock often couldn't be bothered talking to people, on the phone or not. Sherlock made another irritated noise and shoved his phone back into his pocket before continuing.

John heard the phone buzz a few times after that, Sherlock obviously having put it on silent, ignoring the apparently persistent person who was still calling him. John lost focus on what Sherlock was saying, wondering who in the world it could be that wanted Sherlock to pick up so badly. Momentarily he worried for Mrs Hudson, wondering if she had called Sherlock because something had happened back at the flat and had panicked but he quickly quashed that worry as he reasoned with himself that she would have called his phone first, not Sherlock's. Also, as much as Sherlock pretended not to care about their landlady, John had seen first-hand that this was not the case. Sherlock had defended Mrs Hudson in a way that even John had found shocking and had continued to show care to her even after the assailant had been "dealt with". Even the small things that Sherlock did, like allowing Mrs Hudson to fuss and hug him unlike he did with anyone else and the way she knew him, the way she could always find anything he'd hidden, be it in his slippers or his dressing gown pocket, like a mother who knew her son inside out. John was sure that if it was Mrs Hudson who was calling so desperately, Sherlock would have picked up.

John was snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of his own phone ringing and he jumped, sending an embarrassed look to a few of the police men who were stood close by who gave him disapproving looks. Sherlock had been seen so many times with his phone, often times texting John to tell him to get there, that people had stopped bothering to scold him for him. Unfortunately the same didn't go for John and he felt himself turn slightly pink as he picked up the phone, glancing only momentarily at the unknown number.

"Hello?" John said.

"Ah, John," the voice of Mycroft Holmes drifted into John's ear, "You're with Sherlock, I presume?" John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, it's nice to hear from you too Mycroft, you know, you can't just dive straight into questioning when you call someone you know. You're as bad as Sherlock," John said. Too many times John had got calls starting with "How many ways do you reckon you could kill someone with a sewing machine" or "Do you know where Mrs Hudson keeps the pickled onions? I've left a finger in a jar of hers somewhere?" and Sherlock still never listened to him when he told him that you at least had to say "hi" on the phone before you launched into no doubt another weird conversation.

Mycroft made a noise that blatantly told John how irrelevant he found the comment and continued anyway.

"I need to talk to him, he isn't answering his phone. Again," Mycroft sighed, "Can you tell him to talk to me and stop being so childish, it does become him."

"You're telling me," John agreed but then shrugged, even though he knew Mycroft couldn't see it, "He's on a case at the moment, we're at a crime scene, I'll have to call you back" _Well, I would if you didn't block your number all the time, _John thought, cursing the Secret Service nonsense that kept him from calling Mycroft without having to go through Anthea or whatever her name was before he could get to him. He looked over to Sherlock who had stopped for a second to listen to John's call before, apparently working out who it was, went back to looking around the crime scene.

"Is his father there?"

John's attention was pulled sharply back to the phone and he frowned.

"You know about that?" John said, being sure to keep the question inconspicuous. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to keep it quiet that it was Robert Holmes' other son that was calling him but John wasn't sure it was just the common decency of not letting him know they were talking about his that stopped him from being more specific about the eldest Holmes.

"Of course I know about that," Mycroft shot back and John felt unease settle on him as he heard the brittle, sharp quality to Mycroft's voice. He sounded like he was holding back worry so as not to let John know but it was still thick in the atmosphere of the call, the inherent caution in a Mycroft Holmes who had called three times before he pressed on to call John. John knew that that in itself, even talking to Mycroft on the phone, was cause for some kind of concern.

"Is he there? At the crime scene with you?" Mycroft pressed and John spluttered a yes, taken aback by Mycroft's forcefulness. Mycroft made a sound that that John couldn't quite place, halfway between a displeased grunt and the type of sound that Sherlock made when one of his theories came to be true.

"Why is tha-" John began.

"Put Sherlock on the phone John," Mycroft interjected. John gave a snort, Mycroft' rudeness making him stubborn.

"A please would be nice Mycroft," John growled, "And why is it important if he is here? At least he's showing him some support, unlike some people." Mycroft was silent for a few seconds and John knew that he had cut him deep but he didn't care. Mycroft could act as high and mighty as he wanted to, he could try to order John around and talk to his brother as he pleased but in the end, he still owed Sherlock. He owed Sherlock for what he had done, for selling him out and John would not stop reminding him of that fact until he admitted it to Sherlock and, although the act could never be made completely right, he had at least tried to do so.

John waited through Mycroft's silence, waiting for the biting retort that he would usually expect from Sherlock perhaps but instead, Mycroft seemed to let down the typical Holmes demeanour for a second, his voice quieter than usual.

"I will explain to you later why it is important, John. I really have to speak with my brother," Mycroft said, quietly and slowly, pausing a little before he spoke again, "Would you put Sherlock on… please?"

The "please" took John by surprise and he sighed, marvelling at how he still managed to find himself sane when the people around him were so changeable, Sherlock and Mycroft especially. The way they acted, one day happy and exuberant, the next they were mysterious and closed, sometimes they talked and sometimes they didn't and it had taken John all this time just to understand them to this extent and he knew that he would probably spend forever trying to understand the Holmes brothers completely.

"Fine," he said grudgingly and took the phone from his ear, walking closer to Sherlock, "It's for you." Sherlock looked at the phone in distaste and John knew he'd be in for an argument about it, no doubt.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, just talk to him," John said, "It'll take like five minutes. I avoid talking to Harry sometimes and I regret it, so you can suck it up and talk to him for a few minutes. Just see what he has to say." John found himself again covering up the fact that he was talking about Sherlock's brother and he wasn't overly sure why. There was just something about the way Sherlock's father was watching him with a concoction of interest and wariness that made him cautious.

"Go on, I can wait for the rest," John heard Robert say and Sherlock looked from him, to the phone, to John's stern expression and slumped his shoulders in defeat, snatching the phone from John and walking away a few steps, out of ear shot.

John watched him go, disbelieving that he had got out of that without an argument.

"He always was a stubborn child," his father said and John turned to look at him, a small smile on the man's face. John smiled himself, imagining Sherlock as a stubborn toddler, no doubt holding the strop of all strops over anything and everything.

"I bet he was a nightmare to raise," John said, making the older man chuckle. It was the first time John had really spoken with him one to one and he admitted that it was slightly intimidating in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. The man was not overly tall or strong looking and yet he held this presence that captivated your attention and obedience almost instantly. It was also eerily reflective of talking to Sherlock, the way he looked and held himself and yet, it was almost like talking to a parody of him, a sick caricature as where Sherlock's emotions reached his eyes (even when he claimed not to have any), the eyes of the eldest Holmes remained blank and unreadable, like he was constantly calculating and reading you without pity or rest.

"He was." Robert said, "Children like Sherlock need a firm hand to raise them, it can be… difficult, of course." John felt an indescribable chill run through him at the man's words and he couldn't explain exactly what it was about them that made his blood run cold. "A firm hand". "Difficult". The way he had spoken about him sounded as if he was simply a rich land owner talking about cattle he owned and John felt resent build in his stomach. He wasn't sure if it was Lestrade's wariness of the man, Mycroft's panic or simply the churning instinct inside him that caused him to be guarded around the detective's father, but he felt uncomfortable around him, feeling as if was constantly looking too deeply into the man's words and actions, as if looking for something to tip the scales on his opinion of him.

"Well," John said finally, "At least he's turned out a good man, you must have got something right!" He gave a laugh but it came out nervous and although the other man smiled, it again didn't reach the cold, ever watchful eyes.

"A good man," Robert repeated, "Is not what I've heard about him. But he appears to be a good detective." John stared at him, feeling the need to tell him he was wrong and yet, something about him stopped John from saying anything. He didn't know if he meant what he had heard from the officers at Scotland Yard in the newspaper or if it was his own judgement, but surely he hadn't made his decision about his own son on what he had heard? It felt again like a rich man, selling his cattle and John could almost imagine it. _He's a hell of a nuisance, but he's strong and a worker. I'll give you a real good price for him. _

John kept quiet, looking away and back to where he could see Sherlock on the phone and wondered if the way Sherlock was raised really had anything to do with how he had turned out and, if so, how much of it was really down to the man standing by him and whether that was truly a good or a bad thing.

* * *

"What do you want?" Sherlock spat into the phone as he walked away, leaving John at the scene and making sure he was out of earshot.

"You know why I'm calling Sherlock. It would have been a lot less fuss if you had simply picked up the phone," Mycroft said calmly and Sherlock felt his temper rise at that.

"It's none of your business, Mycroft," he said sharply.

"He is my father as well Sherlock, you know. That makes it my business."

Sherlock gave a hiss of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, does it?" he said, voice laced with sarcasm, "I thought you said that Father was no longer your business? Or is it only your business when it concerns me?"

"You are both my responsibility, Sherlock, it was you who told me that you no longer wanted me to interfere with it," Mycroft argued, his voice shifting up so it spoke a little louder and more forcefully down the phone.

"Does that no longer apply? Because if it did then you'd have no need to be calling me right now. Father is working for the police and I am working with Scotland Yard to catch a killer-"

"One of Moriarty's snipers, if my sources are correct," Mycroft interjected and Sherlock heard the sound of paper and files being rustled and moved at the other end of the phone. He held back a frustrated snarl.

"I am working with Father, Mycroft, there is nothing for you to be so interested in," Sherlock growled.

There was a moment of quiet on the other end and Sherlock almost hung up, seeing the opportunity to leave while he still had the last word and the upper hand but before he could, Mycroft spoke again.

"You're still trying to make him proud of you, aren't you?" Mycroft said softly. Sherlock's angry retort caught in his throat and it took a few seconds to dislodge and he silently cursed Mycroft for making him lose track of his thoughts.

"I'm not trying to do anything, Mycroft. I am solving this case, I am living back at 221B, I am a consultant again, I am not _trying _to do anything."

"So, you don't want his approval? You no longer want him to see you as incredible or intelligent?" Mycroft pressed and Sherlock's grip on his phone tightened, fury bubbling inside him. Why did Mycroft think he had a right to assume anything? For all Sherlock knew, Mycroft shouldn't even be concerned about Father and, for all he cared, him either.

"What do you want Mycroft?" he repeated and he reigned in his anger, taking a slow breath, "And tell me the truth or I'm going to hang up and tell John not to pick up if he doesn't know the number." There was a pause and Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was thinking it through, evaluating and deliberating on each of his options in his head.

"I want two things, Sherlock," Mycroft finally said, "And the second thing depends on your answer to the first." Sherlock scoffed and almost made a comment about Mycroft always being so cryptic but was cut off as his brother spoke again.

"Do you still want Father's approval?" Mycroft said and then, just as Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to say whatever was necessary to get Mycroft off his back, he spoke again, "And I don't want you to lie to me either, Sherlock, I know you're going to try but if you do, you may tell John not to pick up, but that won't stop me from calling both him and you and Scotland Yard every minute of every hour of every day until you're put through." Sherlock scowled and gritted his teeth, wondering if it was still worth it to lie. If John was there, Sherlock was sure he'd be impressed. He sometimes wondered if John and his brother were both competing for a prize on who could make the best use of so-called "tough love" as possible and he was the target.

"I want Father to-" Sherlock stopped, thinking of the best way he could tell Mycroft without actually saying the words, "see me as a good detective. I want him to… respect me like other people do. It's not a search for approval Mycroft, I am simply wanting some recognition for the fact that I have become an asset to Scotland Yard, the greatest consultant detective in-"

"You've become an asset to the place where father works," Mycroft said, cutting through Sherlock's words and Sherlock fell to a halt. He heard Mycroft sigh and he wanted so badly to snap something back, to deny it and yet, he _had _become an asset to Father, to the police. He couldn't deny it.

"Sherlock, keep away from him," Mycroft said. There was no emotion to the words, no annoyance or threat or exasperation, instead, he sounded like an automaton, like a broken record playing the same awful track and hating it.

"I'll see you soon," Mycroft said and Sherlock didn't say anything as the phone line went dead. He wanted to quip in with a rejoinder of some sort, daring his brother to order him to keep away from Father or perhaps to say that perhaps it should be him that keeps away his brother and not Father but he didn't say anything, instead simply listening for a few moments at the sound of the soulless beeping on the mobile before he too hung up. For a second he wanted to do nothing more than stay there, to not have to return anywhere, to make a decision as he had had to for the past three months, alone and where the consequences would always be pushing someone away further.

Instead, however, he gathered himself, running a hand through his hair and turned back towards the crime scene, headed purposefully back to John and his father.

* * *

_**A/N: Okay, so the 1**__**st**__** half of that fic was a bit meh for me, I was so tired while writing it that I think I was hallucinating at one point. I'm going to apologise if it doesn't even make sense :/ If you wish to rage on me, I will take it like a strong woman and agree. Otherwise, constructive criticism, reviews or even a quick hello are always welcome! Sorry again that this is late :S Until next time my wonderful dears, goodbye!**_


	11. Care

_**A/N Okay, so I actually do have a valid reason for why it's this morning. Last night my laptop caught one of those security pop-up virus things that took me three hours to fix at which time I could only go on two tabs I'd already had open as the virus wouldn't let me go to any other webpages, including fanfic . net. So I had to wait till it was fixed :'( But anyway, it's here now and I'm happy about that! This chapter is another flashback, I hope you don't mind! If you do object to them, please feel free to tell me.**_

_**Thanks sooooo much once again to everyone who reviewed last time, it was also great to see new reviewers, it's always nice to hear from you :) It's also wonderful to see my regulars, my wonderful superhero reviewers again for another week, I love you guys so much it's unreal X)**_

_**Anyway without more ado-ing, here it is!**_

_**Disclaimer: -_- Still no luck in finding Sherlock. Met Robert Downey Jr for a reasonably priced meal at a rather lovely café. He told me that he was the only viable Sherlock Holmes and to give up the chase, at which point I informed him that, no, he may be Sherlock Holmes, but he will always be the embodiment of Iron Man/Tony Stark, no matter what. We got into an argument about it in which I insisted he **__**was**__** Tony Stark until he got so annoyed with me that he got his bodyguards to throw me out. Worse thing was that I wore a lovely outfit to meet him in and now it is ruined from being chucked out. One is not amused -_- **_

* * *

Mycroft heard the shouting and felt his insides cramp up, the breath stealing from him for a moment in both fear and disappointment. They were at it again. He sighed, standing up from where he had been sat at his desk, doing homework for his politics exam which, in all honesty, he had actually been enjoying until he heard the familiar sound of angry voices drifting through the floorboards. It left him with two choices and he saw both as almost equally unpleasant.

The first was to take the matter like he was expected to, to be the man of the house while Father was currently intoxicated and go downstairs to deal with the matter. The idea made his stomach turn, thinking about trying to get in-between Mother and Father while they were both yelling at each other, Mother's voice getting more and more frail and sick as the argument continued. Father had never hit him for trying to stop the arguments before, but he was always more volatile when he was shouting at his wife, especially when he had had a drink and quite frankly Mycroft did not want to go downstairs at all right now, not wanting to face the wrath even though he knew that Mother could be in trouble. He felt guilt surge in his stomach and shame seize him, knowing that his own cowardice was the reason why the shouting was still on-going.

His other option was just as unappealing, however Mycroft at least felt as if it would do some good, rather than igniting any more flames in an already burning building. Sherlock was home, most likely in his room, and if Mycroft could hear it from down the hall, there was no way that their voices hadn't travelled up the stairs and into Sherlock's room too. Mycroft battled momentarily, knowing that if he didn't go in there, Sherlock would jump to the worst conclusion, which was, unfortunately also the correct one, however if he did, he would have to talk Sherlock out of the idea that their parents were splitting up or that dad's voice was getting increasingly louder and more threatening and Mycroft didn't know if he could manage that. He also didn't know if he could take Sherlock's wounded, hopeful look when he told Mycroft how much he wished that their father would simply stop drinking and become the type of dad that Sherlock imagined he was. Mycroft didn't know how many lies he could tell Sherlock before he suspected.

In the end, there really was no choice to the matter. As much as Mycroft wanted it to put it off, while there was nothing he wanted more than to sit back down and continue with his work and try to ignore as best he could what was happening, he knew that he had both a conscience and a brother, as much as he'd like to deny the first and argue about the second, there never really was a choice between his own discomfort and Sherlock.

Making the decision, he stretched, stalling for time as he tried to brace himself for the unpleasantness ahead. If there was anything he hated more than lying to Sherlock, it was lying when Sherlock knew it too, which was almost exactly what he was currently being forced to do. Knowing that he could not stall forever, Mycroft pulled open his door, the sound of the row downstairs hitting him louder as he did so. He could hear it even clearer as he carefully padded down to Sherlock's room, his comfortable casual trousers falling around his bare ankles, bare feet scratching on the floorboards. He pressed his ear to Sherlock's door and although worry was churning already in his stomach and his mind was whirring as it thought of ways to comfort his brother, the feeling of protectiveness and concern that had taken him to his brother's room was still the strongest emotion by far as he listened for any noises from within the room.

He didn't know what exactly it was he was listening for. He didn't expect quiet sobbing or angry thumping or any calls for him. He knew that wasn't how Sherlock worked and yet, he listened anyway, more cautious than normal, knowing that one wrong move could bring everything in Sherlock's world crashing down upon him. Mother and Father were already tearing up their world, Sherlock's own collapsing with it and Mycroft wanted to delay that as long as possible, maybe even heal over the gap and stop it from happening but, unless he could somehow do the impossible and stop Mother and Father from fighting, he could not see that happening.

Hearing nothing but the expected silence from the other side, Mycroft didn't give himself time to worry any more, knocking a little too forcefully on the door in an attempt to stop himself from spending any more time stalling. He knew that he had to help Sherlock; it was hard enough to hear this himself, never mind for his younger brother, however lying and hiding the truth from him wasn't something he was keen to do. _Quick and fast, like a plaster,_ Mycroft remembered Mother telling him one time when she was trying to make him eat sprouts. _Just get it over and done with and then you can have ice cream. _Mycroft knew that the only thing he was doing after this was going downstairs to stop the fighting but the thought steadied him a little regardless.

"Sherlock?" He wished that he could have said his brother's name at just above a whisper as although he didn't believe in the childish stories Sherlock told him about the walls being able to speak, the whole house seemed to be more oppressive right now and he straightened, reaching up to tug at his shirt collar as if it was constricting his breathing only to find that he was wearing a loose shirt, with his collar already unbuttoned. He had to say Sherlock's name at just above normal talking volume in order to surface above his parent's shouting and the way the name echoed sent a chill down his spine. He didn't fully hear the response but he was pretty sure that the mumble from behind the door resembled something similar to "go away".

Mycroft gave a small smile. Even though Sherlock could obviously hear what was going on downstairs and knew that Mycroft was only here to help, he was still as petulant as ever. Mycroft didn't even announce his entrance as he promptly ignored his brother's sulky protest, still smiling a little. It helped ease his dread a little, spotting the tangle of brown curls and the long, navy pyjamas lying on the bed, nose buried in a book. Mycroft felt better at times like this when Sherlock was around. Being a Holmes was lonely, it always was, with parents splitting apart, often forgetting to even acknowledge their children as they tear at each other's throats.

Mycroft craned his neck to try and at a better angle what Sherlock was reading but Sherlock angled the book down at the same time, making Mycroft roll his eyes as he realised Sherlock was doing it on purpose.

"You are so childish Sherlock," Mycroft said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a look too old for someone of his age.

"That's maybe because I am still classed as a child, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. Mycroft gave a noise of half annoyance and sat down on the bed, next to where Sherlock's thin stomach was splayed on the bedsheets, rumpling them beyond fixing, obviously meaning he had been here for a while. Perhaps since Mother and Father started arguing as Mycroft knew that although Sherlock read a lot and it wasn't unusual to see him splayed out in bed or on the sofa or in the garden, reading, he very often used his books as a means of escape, burying himself in them so that he may both physically hide his face and to also hide himself inside the pages as best he could.

Mycroft leant over a touch to try and take a look at the pages but again he was shielded from it until he eventually gave in and sighed, "What are you reading today?" Sherlock seemed to ponder the question a moment, as if he was deciding whether or not he wanted to make a game out of it or not. Sherlock loved to know things other people didn't. If Mycroft had the time and his mind wasn't currently filled with other things, he would have deduced the book by now, however his mind was already too cluttered as it was without deduction adding to it. And, truthfully, it seemed like too much energy over one book.

Luckily Sherlock apparently agreed with him and after a few moments he sat up, bringing the book with him, apparently tired of being stubborn. He showed Mycroft the cover of the book, a red fabric bound copy that Mycroft had given to him as part of a set of Medieval classics one Christmas.  
"Dante's Inferno," Sherlock shrugged, as if a child who had not even reached double figures yet was normally expected to read something as complex as that. Mycroft chuckled.

"How're you finding it?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Okay I guess," he said and then he waited a moment before he added "Mother and Father… they're going to divorce aren't they?"

The suddenness of the question made Mycroft falter and his stomach dropped. He cursed internally that Sherlock was as grown-up as he was and for a split second, he was caught out by Sherlock's words. Sherlock was grown-up in respects that he was smart and practical however there were also times when he was like every other boy, perhaps even worse, struggling to keep his emotions under control, afraid and angry all at once. Mycroft had, of course, not noticed this quality in himself when he was Sherlock's age but instead had discovered it from all the hours of looking after Sherlock, in the mornings when he helped him pack for school, in the evenings when he had to make dinner for the two of them when Mother was in hospital and Father was working, when he kept Sherlock occupied with games and putting him to bed when it was time. Mycroft had suffered through each tantrum and although he knew it was not his responsibility, only his choice, to try and raise his brother as well as he could, he still felt the weight of responsibility over him and had observed as much as he could about his brother's behaviour. He knew Sherlock almost better than he knew himself.

"They're not going to get a divorce Sherlock," Mycroft said and inside he cringed. _Lie number one, _he thought to himself. He wasn't unintelligent, they both weren't, which was why they both knew he was lying and yet Mycroft still wanted to say it, to pretend that Sherlock was still a little boy and too innocent to know what all the shouting and the arguing and the smashing plates and thumps meant. It wasn't so much wondering when a divorce would happen; it was more that they were waiting for Father to leave. They all knew he would, someday soon. He would leave and force a divorce and no matter how much Mother wanted him to stay, he wouldn't. He'd leave to join the army with his brother or something else equally infuriating and leave them here without so much as a second thought. Mycroft didn't know if it was because Father's income was the only thing keeping them afloat after Mother got sick or if she really did truly still love the man, but Mycroft knew that when Father left, Mother was going to get worse. Because even through all of this, Mycroft knew that deep down, Mother didn't want him to leave. She still loved him. Mycroft scowled at the thought. Love was not an advantage when it brought nothing but destruction and pain.

Sherlock remained quiet for a few moments as Mycroft's thoughts drifted into darkness, the younger boy apparently thinking through things as well. They sat in silence for a few moments, consumed by their thoughts, before Sherlock shifted on the bed, hands readjusting on the book as he settled his eyes down towards it.

"They're always fighting," Sherlock said, "It's… logical to assume that they're going to divorce." There was a pause and Sherlock's previous sentence had sounded so unsure that Mycroft didn't know if he wanted to continue or not. Eventually, he did. "Mother wouldn't like a divorce, would she?"

Mycroft sighed and wished that his brother wasn't half as smart as he was. The boy knew full well what was going on and yet the hopeful tone in his voice suggested that he wished it were otherwise. Mycroft wished it was otherwise too, if it meant that for once they could have a normal family who went on family holidays to the seaside together and had their dinner together and told each other things and _trusted _one another like the families of his friends did. More so because he wished that Sherlock had grown up with more of a father than a drunk and a snake of a man, more of a mother than the absent one who was continually in hospital and more of a brother than the one currently trying to play both roles.

"Sherlock, everybody fights sometimes," Mycroft said, trying to give Sherlock a weak smile, "Even family. It doesn't mean they're getting a divorce." He knew that it was an empty, weak attempt at comfort. They both knew what was going to happen. They were just going through the motions, as they always had to.

Sherlock gave him a despondent look that told him that Sherlock too didn't really believe what he was saying. Mycroft swallowed at the expression on his younger brother's face, nothing but crushed hopes and pain and Mycroft remembered back to that day when he had tried to stop Father from hitting Sherlock, ending up with a stripe across the face and back himself for his troubles but he had ignored it, or at least tried to, trying to tend to the blossoming black eye on Sherlock's face through eyes that were already tearing up and blurry with tears of pain. He had seen the same look on Sherlock's face then. Sherlock hadn't spoken for two weeks after that, the next morning being the first day of silence in Sherlock's life and ever since, Mycroft had often seen Sherlock lapse into fits of silence. Both anger and pain had flared in Mycroft at his brother's youthful voice being stolen but in the end he had given up trying to get Sherlock to talk, even when he yelled for it sometimes, getting frustrated and shouting at his brother, secretly regretting it afterwards. It was Sherlock's way of dealing with things and Mycroft wasn't prepared to deprive him of that.

"I mean," Mycroft pressed, trying to remove that expression from his brother's face, "We fight all the time." Mycroft gave him a wry grin that he knew looked utterly false even before he did it but hoped still that Sherlock would take some comfort from it. They did argue a lot. Sometimes over silly things, like what Sherlock wanted for dinner or sometimes it was over bigger things, like Sherlock keeping the fact that he was being bullied a secret or something equally as troubling and Sherlock would give Mycroft the silent treatment for days on end. It wasn't that they disagreed a lot, it was just that they had never exactly seen eye to eye, not completely, on a lot of topics and with Mycroft already being stressed out with schoolwork and with looking after Sherlock and Sherlock's characteristic petulance, things descended into arguments and bickering sessions easier than they were resolved. It had become almost a way of solving problems by now, bickering and verbally sparring until someone gained the upper hand. Embarrassingly, that was usually Sherlock.

"Yeah, but not like that," Sherlock said and he didn't need to gesture downstairs for Mycroft to know what he was talking about. Mycroft sighed, trying to think of something to say but Sherlock ploughed onwards, his voice more fragile and broken than it had been moments ago.

"What if Father leaves? What will we do then? We won't have any money and Mother… Mother will still be ill and… I don't want Father to leave, Mycroft," Sherlock continued. Mycroft's heart broke as he heard Sherlock's pleading tone, as if Mycroft held all the answers and he was simply withholding them from his brother. As if Mycroft could fix everything, like he always did. _I'm sorry Sherlock, _Mycroft thought, _but I can't fix this._

"Father, he- he can't leave. I'll be good Mycroft, I promise, I'll be really good. I don't understand why he'd-"

"Sherlock, stop."

Mycroft had to stop his brother before he continued any further. He couldn't bear to hear it, Sherlock's blind faith in a man that had never shown Sherlock compassion, except from when he was deducing or commenting on a case. He didn't want to hear Sherlock promise to be good because, despite his temper tantrums, Sherlock _was _a good kid, even when being raised by someone as inept as Mycroft considered himself to be. He always wanted to do good for people and no-one had ever taught him to be like that. And worse, he was talking as if he expected Mycroft to be able to solve the problem when Mycroft had no possible way to help.

"Sherlock, Father's not-" he stopped himself, knowing that what he was about to say was a lie. And he had already lied to Sherlock today when all Sherlock really needed was the truth. Father was going to leave and there was nothing he could do about it. No matter how much he hated the man for what he had done to Mother, no matter how angry he was towards him for what he had done to Sherlock, he would have swallowed his pride begged him to stay, if that was going to solve Sherlock's problems. But it wasn't going to. Father would never listen.

There wasn't a way out of it and Mycroft knew it and the dread of it made him feel sick, thinking about what the Hell he was planning on doing once it happened. Where the money was going to come from. How Mother would cope when she was still sick. How he was going to look after the house and Mother and Sherlock all at once. And most of all, how crushed Sherlock was going to be. Mycroft estimated a month, perhaps more, of silence and after that, Sherlock would pretend he was okay, but he wouldn't be. Mycroft would know it, he would know it and yet they'd still go through the same old charade. Mycroft was practical about that and wished Sherlock would be too. There were so many things that Mycroft loved about Sherlock not being as practical as he was, the fact that he once wanted to be a pirate, that he still cared about people even when it was difficult, that he wanted to help people despite his age. And yet, Mycroft knew what he had to do in order to save Sherlock from the oncoming storm. And it killed him inside.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said and he halted, considering what he was about to do, what this could do to his brother. It was a decision Mycroft had never been forced to make, the better of two evils, when both evils would harm his brother. He swallowed hard and tried to make sure Sherlock didn't see how conflicted he was. He felt dirty, going behind Sherlock's back, skulking around like a snake and lying to him. It felt wrong. He always tried to be honest with Sherlock, even when Sherlock wasn't honest with him.

"You've got to promise me something," Mycroft said. Sherlock frowned.

"What?" There again, the innocent voice making Mycroft falter in his resolve before he steadied himself.

"Listen to me Sherlock, I want you to listen very closely to me and try to understand what I'm trying to get across to you here, okay?" Mycroft said, waiting then until Sherlock nodded. He felt as if his hands were shaking and he looked down at them, clenching them once before looking back to Sherlock. He knew what he had to say, how he could stop Sherlock from falling apart, but it burned his insides to think about it. "People… people can be… cruel, Sherlock. Especially to people who are… different."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "People like us?" he asked and Mycroft nodded slightly, slowly. Sherlock's eyes flickered with something that was crossed between confusion and betrayal and Mycroft almost backed out then and there.

"We're going to be on our own now, for quite a while, once… once Father leaves," Mycroft pressed on and he had to close his eyes when Sherlock's expression turned pained at the idea of Father leaving them, "And you need to be able to look after yourself as well as having me around. You need to be able to cope well enough so that we can work together." The words sent another pang of guilt through Mycroft as although he spoke of working together, right now he knew he was doing something very dangerous and possibly harmful to his own brother. A lump formed in his throat and he fought not to let out a sound before he spoke again.

"What I'm saying is Sherlock, you can't afford to dwell on Father," Mycroft said.

"But Mycroft-"

"I mean it Sherlock. But I also mean other people," Mycroft continued. Sherlock looked confused.

"What do you mean, other people?"

Mycroft deliberated his choice in words, knowing that this was the final chance to back out before the deed was already underway.

"I mean… that lots of people in the world, most people in fact, are going to treat you differently… badly even, because you're different. What I need you to do is to ignore all of that. You know how brilliant you are, I know how brilliant you are, that's all you need and so you're going to have to use that knowledge to ignore whatever it is they say about you."

"Mycroft, what does this have to do with Mother and-"

Mycroft interrupted him, cutting through, desperate to get it over and done with. _Quick like a plaster. _"All we've got is each other Sherlock," Mycroft said, voice becoming desperate and shaky before he reigned it back in with difficulty, "Other people, they can't be trusted. You've got to… you've got to keep at a distance Sherlock because… most times, most times they're out for themselves, okay? And… and that means Father too, Sherlock. People are good at hurting other people, you're better off keeping as… as far removed as possible." The words hurt. They hurt like nothing he had ever experienced, more than the belt Father had struck him with when he had tried to help Sherlock. They were painful because he knew that what he was doing was going to stay. More than he would want it because Sherlock was barely more than a child, impressionable and trusting and Mycroft was taking advantage of that. And he _hated _it.

Sherlock looked up at him, confused eyes making Mycroft's heart bleed. "But, Mycroft, I don't understand… Father… Father isn't out to hurt me," Sherlock said. Mycroft felt frustration rise momentarily over the guilt and he quickly quashed it.

"Sherlock, when he leaves, you have to be stronger," Mycroft forced onwards, "Just, listen to me, you have to protect yourself from people... from feelings." Mycroft knew that if this worked, he wouldn't have to worry about Sherlock falling into self-destruct mode after Father was gone. He knew that maybe it would also even help with the bullying at school, although that wasn't the main aim. And yet, he also knew that what he was doing was wrong and, as yet, didn't know if it was the right decision or not. As every second passed he grew more and more uncertain and yet now there was no way he could take it back.

"You… you want me be on my own?" Sherlock said and Mycroft felt everything inside him twist up painfully, "But Mycroft… What about friends? And, and what about you? You can't expect me to just stop caring about everyone." The last sentence sounded almost like the usual Sherlock and yet Mycroft could tell that it was nothing but a sick parody of it. He clenched his teeth before he spoke, trying to squeeze out the guilt and frustration. He wanted to say no, not me, don't stop caring about everyone, don't stop being my brother and yet, he couldn't say it. The only way to save his little brother was to damn him.

"I mean, you can't afford to be… you can't afford to be too close to people, Sherlock. It's dangerous. Like with Father, it'll only… it'll only hurt you. I don't want to see that happen, I-"

"You want me to be more like you," Sherlock said. It wasn't quite a statement, not quite a question, merely a thought spoken aloud that was only elaborated on a few moments later when Sherlock continued, "The way you push people away so you can study, you want me to do that so I can… protect myself."

Mycroft nodded even though he knew it wasn't a question. And then he spoke the words that he would look back on and know that he made the biggest mistake of his life. "You have to promise me that you'll keep to that Sherlock. So you don't get hurt."

Sherlock didn't say anything for the longest time and Mycroft thought that he had gone into one of his silent moods. He didn't know whether his heart sank more at that or more when Sherlock spoke up a long few minutes later.

"Okay." It was one word, one quiet, tiny word that dropped into the atmosphere like a pebble into a silent lake and yet Mycroft knew in that moment that the gravity of what he had done outweighed the reasons it was done for. He had destroyed what he loved most about his brother, he had taken away the one thing that differed Sherlock from what Mycroft had raised him as and now there was nothing Mycroft could do to take it back. It felt like the whole world had rocked, everything tilting nauseatingly and he could feel that his hands were now definitely shaking as he looked at the despondent boy in front of him. He wished that he could take it all back and yet he knew that the impression was already made, the idea already planted and taking seed.

"Sherlock, I-" Mycroft didn't know what he was going to try and say, what it was that he could say after what he had done, however he never got to find out as both the boys bolted up from the bed at the sound of a scream of fury from downstairs, Mother's anger travelling up the stairs so loudly that Mycroft was shocked at it, the boom of Father's voice reverberating the wooden floorboards and then the sound of a plate cracking against something, maybe the floor, maybe the wall but it didn't matter because Mycroft was already up, putting his hands on Sherlock's cheeks and kneeling down slightly to talk to the boy.

"Stay here," he said and removed his hands, placing them on Sherlock's shoulders, "Okay? Do not move from this room until I come back up, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, fear evident on his features and in his eyes. There was a pleading also in his eyes and Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would beg him not to go like he sometimes did but the child stayed quite, nodding again, less shakily this time and stepping back. Mycroft blinked in shock at the movement. Sherlock had never stepped away from Mycroft at a time like this, usually he preferred the contact, to try and protect his older brother by keeping him safe and away from their parents by trying to stay as close to him as possible. Mycroft knew what he had done, what he had taught his brother to do in order to protect him. _Push away everyone Sherlock, it's for the best. _And now he was beginning to wonder if what he had done was really the better of two evils.

He straightened and with a hard swallow, grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open, putting on a stern, unshakeable mask as he stormed out into the hallway and down the stairs. From behind him, still stood in the room he had left, Sherlock watched him leave. He wanted to call out to him to tell him to stop, _please, no, Mycroft, don't leave, I don't want you to get hurt, please don't leave me alone, please. _But he knew what Mycroft had been trying to teach him. And maybe he could one day even see why Mycroft had taught him it and then they could see eye to eye like Sherlock had always wanted them to.

Right now however the only thing Sherlock could do was practice the notion in his mind, set up the necessary barriers in his head and listen to the sounds of screaming from downstairs.

* * *

_**A/N Gah, what a horrible chapter ending, I feel so bad for our Holmes boys :'( I feel so mean at doing this however this was always the plan. I wanted to delve into what Mycroft said in Series 2 about having betrayed Sherlock before and made mistakes. I think this was the first of a series of mistakes Mycroft made that led to their relationship today. I kind of wanted to show in this chapter that not everything was perfect, I mean obviously not with the hurt we've already had with Mother and Father but also that it wasn't all perfect all the time with the brothers either, as it never is with siblings. There'll be fights and tears, like Sherlock's "Go away" at the beginning of the chapter and Mycroft's initial reluctance to go help, but that's something that brothers always have, so I wanted to show that too. Also, in relation to Mycroft's betrayals, I don't think that Mycroft is any way a bad guy, he simply makes the wrong choices, often preferring the easier route which can end in disaster, as with the Moriarty incident in season 2. He's not a coward but he comes across that way as he takes the road that offers the least resistance and we lose sight of how tempting that can be and how we ourselves often do it because we root for Sherlock throughout the series, who always takes the harder route.**_

… _**Wow, sorry, I felt like a spot of essay writing there, my apologies :D I have lots of feels XD Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I really liked writing this one, it was really interesting, so I hope it shows :S All reviews are much welcomed and greatly loved so if you wanna say hi, feel free. (If you're not as amazed/terrified by the new review system as I am :O) If not, see ya'll next time! Thanks for reading!**_


	12. Leave

_**A/N: Okay, so due to the fact that it is once again Monday, I am making a services announcement: From today, posting days are now MONDAY and not Sunday. Strange I know, it's still a week exactly yet I seem to be able to complete them better Monday to Monday than Sunday to Sunday as I have the whole weekend. My apologies if this is inconvenient for anyone, please don't hate me XD **_

_**Thank you sooooo much to everyone who reviewed last week, you make my week shiny and wonderful XD You're all so smart, funny and lovely to talk to and I would happily treat each and every one of you to a reasonably priced meal with maybe even the cinemas after (that is a lot for someone like me who has never even been on a date before ;P) **_

_**A few notes on this chapter: It is shorter than my others yet I am exceptionally proud of this in particular XD Also, it takes place a month or so after the last flashback, if you want to know the timing. And finally A WARNING: This chapter does use the "f" swear word, which I do regret to have to include but I felt it was necessary. If it offends you in any way, please be sure to let me know, as with anything else that you disagree with :) **_

_**Disclaimer: Walking around London listening to sad music when… wait, wait, Monkeys, do you see it? I SEE IT! The cloud of despair! The constant cloud that follows Moffat and Gattis around, harming fangirls all over the word and wrecking its wrath on innocent TV-veiwers and fans. QUICKLY! To the MonkeyMobile! Banana phasors readied and primed! Tractor beam at the ready! ADVANCE! Follow that cloud!**_

* * *

"Robert! Robert Holmes, you selfish bastard, don't you walk away from me!"

Sherlock ducked, making himself even smaller, watching his mother screaming from where he was stood in the doorway. He felt his hands creep up to cover his ears and for a moment the world was blissfully silent before he pulled them away, closing his eyes momentarily. _Don't let it affect you. Don't block it out. Analyse. Deduce. Watch.  
_"Look at me! Look at me, you pig! You have two sons, two sons Robert and they both need you so don't you dare turn your back on them! _I _need you! Do you hear me?" The back door slammed, the one that Sherlock used to get out to the garden to the kitchen, the one that he had once hid behind to scare Mycroft, the one that was painted green from the outside. The one that Father was trying to leave through, only to be stopped by Agatha Holmes as she forcefully shoved it closed. A second later, Sherlock heard the front door close too and he knew that Mycroft was home and he debated running upstairs, pretending that he had never heard any of this so that Mycroft wouldn't get angry. Considering that he would have to run through the hallway, past the front door and up the stairs, it was redundant to imagine that he could avoid getting caught by his brother.

"I can't work! Do you understand that Robert? I am too sick to work, I can't put food on the table for those boys if you-" Mother was screaming but Sherlock didn't catch the rest of the sentence but he knew that Mother sounded hurt. He wanted to help, to tell her that Father still loved her and that he wasn't really going to leave, it's okay but he knew that it wouldn't do any good. They wouldn't stop arguing for long enough to let him even say it, even though he knew that Mother would no doubt want to listen to him. She was always saying what a good boy he was.

Her words were drowned out as Sherlock began listening to the footsteps approaching. They were hurried, almost a jog and the kitchen door swung open, Sherlock having to sidestep in order to avoid it. There was only a split second, a small moment in which Sherlock thought that Mycroft wouldn't notice him and he watched his older brother, eyes wide, standing with his back to Sherlock and staring at the arguing couple. Sherlock knew that if he could see Mycroft's face, it would have been a raging storm of fury. Sherlock was unsure of whether or not he wanted Mycroft to see him, especially when he was as angry as he was, however he had no choice in the matter as at that moment, Mycroft turned, school tie slicing through the air. Sherlock had taken the day off school today, coming down with the flu that had brought him downstairs for Paracetemol a few moments ago. Mother said he shouldn't take Paracetemol, only Calpol because he was too young, but he didn't listen.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said and although the sound of his name held little significance other than recognition to him at the time, Sherlock would always remember that day as the only day he ever regretted hearing his own name, all the way up until he faked his death at Bart's, years later. The sound was hollow, afraid and raw and everything that Mycroft was not. Like his brother's heart had been extricated from his chest and all that was left was a gaping, empty expanse.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? Get out, out," Mycroft said and all though Sherlock pulled a face at the words, rude and course, they sounded nothing like what they meant. They sounded quiet, hushed and strangely gentle. Mycroft was talking in a hushed tone and he walked the few paces to Sherlock, kneeling down and putting both hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders. _You'll get the flu if you stand too close, _Sherlock thought and the thought was random, out of place, yet it was the only thing that came to mind as he looked at Mycroft's serious, urgent eyes. Mycroft, the unflappable, infallible Mycroft Holmes was afraid.

His brother's hands wrapped all the way around Sherlock's shoulders, onto a little of his upper back, being bigger because he was older but also because Sherlock was thinner than most boys his age. He felt them squeeze gently as he looked over to behind Mycroft where he could still hear Mother and Father arguing.

"Do not try to stop me," Sherlock heard Father say and it was a miracle, or a curse, that he heard it as the man had spoken it at lower than a normal volume, calm, in control and utterly level. His hand was on the door handle, the other fisted down by his side and Sherlock could see Mother eyeing it from the corner of her eye. They hadn't even noticed Sherlock stood there, had barely cared when Mycroft had walked in, too consumed with the familiar plot of their obscene play to which Sherlock thought he knew the ending to. Father wouldn't leave. He never had. And yet, Sherlock had never seen such ice behind the man's eyes as he did now, colder than ever and yet burning like a furnace.

"Sherlock, hey, listen, are you listening to me? Sherlock," Mycroft was urgently muttering to him, voice still low and Sherlock dragged his eyes away, flicking them back to the teenager who was still gripping his shoulder, sat back on his haunches, knees on the floor with his back straightened up so that he could be tall enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was going to nod, Mycroft's urgently putting him off balance and so he thought it was best to answer his question as concisely as possible, however his brother didn't give him time to reply.

"I want you to go upstairs for a bit, okay? Just for a while," Mycroft said and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, only managing to say Mycroft's name before he was interjected across again.

"Sherlock, I mean it, go upstairs. I'll be up soon," Mycroft's voice was more forceful now, still hushed but it held a firm note to it that didn't allow an argument, "Now."

Sherlock grimaced but otherwise showed nothing else. He had gotten used to leaving Mycroft to it now, allowing him to try and break up the arguments without asking him to stay with him or not to go in the room. It had taken a few painful times to stop wanting to tell Mycroft that he didn't want him to go, that he was worried that he was going to come back with bruises or marks where a belt had lashed across, but he had forced himself to remember what he had promised his brother. He had to keep the promise, Mycroft had been so insistent on it, even if it meant pushing aside his concerns for the older boy. He had to keep his promise.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded and he took one last look over Mycroft's shoulder before he turned, sidling out of the door.

Mycroft took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he stood and turned, gut roiling at the thought of having to once again be the mediator to an argument that not only scared the hell out of him but was also one he did not even agree with. Of course, he needed Father to stay, he was after all the only source of income they had and yet, if that was not the case, Mycroft would not even try to keep him at home. Not after what he had done to Mother, to Sherlock. A slam caused Mycroft to jump and he looked away from where he had watched Sherlock leave, eyes settling on where his Father had been moments ago. The space was empty and Mycroft quickly tracked his eyes across the space, heart racing.

"Don't you _dare _speak to me like that."

Mycroft's eyes locked onto his father, the words spat in the same controlling, cold voice and it was the cold hatred, the almost unemotional way of speech, as if hate was just a state of being and not an emotion. Robert Holmes had seized his wife by the wrist, pushing her forward until her back had slammed hard into the kitchen counter, his other hand coming up to press against where her sternum was, keeping her placed, back arching painfully against the counter.

"I will leave when I want to leave Agatha," Robert spat and Mycroft wasn't even aware that he was moving until he felt his hands slam into his father's side as forcefully as he could manage, feeling the man stumble sideways a little by the force, Mycroft almost colliding into him.

"Get off her!" Mycroft realised he had shouted and then he was only a few centimetres away, having to look up in order to look at his father's face.

The expression flickered from fury to a cold, uncaring mask in a matter of seconds and the change was uncomfortable, shaking Mycroft's resolve momentarily. There was a second of silence before Mycroft felt his mother's hand on his arm, trying to urge him away.

"Mycroft, Mycroft dear, go upstairs to your brother dear-"

"He's a grown man," Robert said levelly, "He can take the consequences for his own actions." Mycroft awaited the blow, tensing in anticipation and trying not to lose eye contact with the man he hated so much.

"Robert, Robert please honey, don't-"

"Or what? What can you do, Agatha? Hmm?" The words were biting and Mycroft felt his mother's hand recoil from his arm as if it had suddenly become too hot to touch. There was a few moments of silence once more, tense and pulled out taut like a bow string, ready to fire.

"Go on then," Mycroft challenged, "Leave." Robert scoffed and the sound was bitter and chilling, sending a chill down Mycroft's spine. The show of weakness, as momentary as it was, didn't elude the older man and he sneered, Mycroft quickly leaping to cover it over with what words he could muster. "We don't need you." It was a bluff and he knew it. They would not be able to sustain a living if their father left and although it seemed a far off notion, something that would never happen to people like them, surely, the fact of the matter was that there was a good chance that not only would they barely be able to cling onto the house, but it was a possibility that they wouldn't even have the money to spare for food.

Robert Holmes grinned and it was the closest thing to the Devil that Mycroft had ever seen and he wondered if, like Sherlock, halfway through his book, the bookmark still placed at the just-past-halfway point, he too was descending into Hell as Dante had done. Except this Hell was more real, more dangerous.

"Oh," Robert sneered, "You don't? And who is going to pay the bills, Mycroft? Because I assure you, it certainly shall not be me. Do you have the guts to watch that brother of yours starve, boy? I'm sure you and he can look after Agatha by yourselves, you being such clever, clever boys and all." The tone was mocking and Mycroft knew that he'd had his bluff called on. That fact, however, didn't stop the surge of fury sparking through his veins and he let out a near audible growl, low in his throat, desperate to lash out yet he knew that Father was a lot larger, stronger and faster than he was.

"Don't you dare talk about them like that," Mycroft snarled and the words felt so familiar. The familiar leap to his families aid, never thanked for it and yet he did it anyway, the surge of protectiveness, despite how familiar and weary it could often get, was too strong to deny. They were _his _family, not his father's.

The smirk on Robert Holmes' face vanished, the cool mask on again and it was as if he was a snake, finished with toying with his victim and ready to strike for the kill.

"Your mother," he snarled, lowering his face to come close to Mycroft's, alcohol and cigarettes strong on his breath, "is better off dead, Mycroft. She is a sick, lonely woman. You're welcome to her." Mycroft stepped back as if he had been struck and father rose to stand at full height again, an air of infuriating nochalence being the only read Mycroft could get on him.

"And really Mycroft, we both know that, between the two of us, Sherlock will always choose me over you."

That hurt Mycroft more than anything that had been said, more than the belt that had been aimed at Sherlock, enough to make his throat close up for a second as he simply gaped at his father. The thing that hurt the most, Mycroft knew, out of everything in the known universe, was the truth. Because, in the end, what Father had said was true. It had always been true, always will be. When it came down to it, no matter what Mycroft did for Sherlock, he would not be his father for him, even when that was apparently all that Sherlock wanted. A father. Any father would do, just somebody that was supposed to be there for him, to be a tutor like Mycroft could never be, a protector like Mycroft feared he could never live up to. Sherlock's logical brain would always choose what he needed, not what he knew was right or what he wanted. And that would never change because he, Mycroft Holmes, would never be quite good enough for him.

He felt numb as he stood there, unable to move as Father moved for the door. Mycroft didn't react when Mother barged past and the screaming started again, this time louder, angrier, more dangerous but Father had already made his mind up. He was leaving. He was leaving and if that didn't break Sherlock one final time, Mycroft knew that it would break Mother. Everything he had done to protect his family and yet it was as if destiny had picked him out to be alone, his family cracked and broken around him.

Vaguely he could hear the back door being opened, Mother slamming into the wall in a hurry to put herself between her husband and the door, screaming all the while.

"Don't you dare leave me! Don't you dare leave me while I still fucking love you Robert Holmes! Don't you leave these boys on their own!" Mycroft knew that he should move. Knew that he should try to help but he just stood, numb and frozen in the kitchen like the last pillar to fall in a collapsing building. The last card in a house of cards. He was done.

"I'll never forgive you! You can't leave me here to die Robert, I won't let you leave these boys here, I won't! Don't you-" Another thud, a cry and Mycroft's brain began to reboot, making sense of the noises around him.

By the time he was fully aware of everything around him, it was too late. The doorway was empty, apart from Agatha Holmes, screaming out into the evening air, tears streaking her face, making distorted patterns in her make-up and making her eyes red. Like the Devil had left with Father and left behind a demon to scar his mother, the last deed of a man Mycroft would never again call Father. He watched as his mother's knees almost gave way, shaking as she fell into a kitchen chair, harsh, wracking sobs wrenching from her. He knew what it was like. As he was afraid for Sherlock, she was afraid for both her boys, her two beloved boys who she did not even know now if they would live. No father, barely a mother and no money and Mycroft knew how that kind of heartbreak felt. Because she could never rest. Never forgive herself. Never allow herself a moment of respite because she would forever carry the brand Mycroft knew all too well. _I was not good enough to save my family. _Except, unlike Mycroft, she could not cure herself, could not even try to mend what was broken.

He trod quietly towards her, opening his mouth once and closing it before he actually managed to speak. She looked haggard, tired and there was a broken sound to her sobbing that sounded as if it was coming from somewhere deep in her soul as it shattered, turning itself inside out and simply _screaming. _

"Mother-"

"Get out."

He flinched. The voice was so venomous, so filled with anguish that it made bile rise in his throat and he gulped, stepping a step closer.

"Please, Mother, Sherlock needs-"

"I said get out!" she screamed and Mycroft backed up so quickly that his feet almost tripped over each other.

"Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Mycroft took one last look and his wide, incredulous eyes could barely even comprehend the sight, the woman who had raised him looking so broken and overpowered that she didn't even look herself, instead she looked like something was trying to crawl out of her skin, like she was writhing within herself, fury and anguish and pain and hatred bubbling like hot oil beneath her surface. His breath heavy and his palms clammy, Mycroft scurried from the room, his throat feeling tight and burning as if it was contracting around a hot poker, almost painful and he had to close his eyes against it.

He slammed the kitchen door, turning, his mind set on running straight upstairs but with no idea of what he was going to do next. Instead, he was met with the sight of Sherlock, stood at the end of the hall, staring at the door as if it had bit him. Mycroft made to say his name, but the idea didn't even leave his head, not making it to his mouth.

"He – he's gone, isn't he?" Sherlock said, barely audible, "Should… should we go after him?" Mycroft said nothing, the tightness in his throat only growing until he could stand it no longer. He should be angry at Sherlock for eavesdropping and tell him off. Or tell him it was going to be okay. Or assure him that father was coming back. The only thing he knew not to do, from experience, was to leave him alone. And yet the tightness in his throat was too much to handle, the room was too hot, the sobbing from the room behind him was sending searing daggers of pain into the back of his head and he had to get out of there.

So he did what he knew he shouldn't. Ignoring Sherlock's question, Mycroft gave him one last, long, sad look and then, without saying a word, slowly walked past him, not speaking as he walked up the stairs.

He would never forgive himself for what he knew was one of the biggest mistakes of his life that day. The very day that Sherlock Holmes stopped trusting him. The day that he betrayed his brother's faith in him and worst of all, the day he failed to save his brother.

But most of all, he would never forgive Robert Holmes for taking the choice away.

* * *

_**A/N Okay, so, I hope this gave some explanation as to why Mother was as she was. Robert pretty much left her and her sons to die and she had nothing she could do about it. Naturally, as a mother, this killed her inside, the agony of seeing her own sons struggle and not being able to help and she, if you will, did become unstable due to the stress and agony and her already sick body. With Sherlock looking as he did, he was an everyday reminder of the pain and betrayal and failure she had suffered at the hands of her husband and, in her head, now Sherlock. So I know that she's still an evil wicked witch, yet I hope this cleared a few things up. Nobody is evil without a cause.**_

_**Anyway, thank you so, so much for reading once again! Leave a review if you'd like or just say hi and in any case, have a great week! See you soon XD**_


	13. Mask

_**A/N Gah. So this failed. A long weekend with the sister, friend trouble and viruses have made this chapter nigh on impossible to get it out. Which is kind of befitting really since this is unlucky number 13 :/ (Wow, we're on 13 already? Wowzas :D) Anyways, I am sorry this is late, it's been the craziest challenge to get this out with everything coming at me recently :D I promise to get next week out without issue :D  
Anyway, a dialogue heavy chapter, one of the longer chapters too. I kinda love/hate this chapter so it'll be great to hear what everyone/anyone thinks :D On that note, thanks soooo much to all those people who reviewed! I love you guys so much, you're my inspirations and my muses and (hopefully) friends to me! Also, thanks to all who favourite-d, alerted and such, it is very, very much appreciated to know that people are reading this XD  
Prior warning also, sorry for any mistakes made in this, even my spell check was against me this week D': **__**  
Disclaimer: I-I- c-can't g-go on. *Blows nose on tissue* It's too h-horrible D': The c-cloud has *sniffle* consumed me and n-now a-all I see is pain *wails* *Monkey pats me on the back and hands me a tissue* THIS IS AWFUL! *Descends into crying fit* H-help s-someone… please? *sobs quietly***_

* * *

They had returned relatively early from the crime scene, despite Sherlock's distracted demeanour after his phone call. He had been quieter after that, at least for Sherlock's usual standards and although John knew that neither his father nor Lestrade had noticed the change, John had. He had momentarily wondered if he was tired, he was after all still worryingly thin with no significant improvement to his eating habits after his return and John had yet to see him get a full, uninterrupted night's sleep and yet he was more tempted to think that the phone call had played a larger part in Sherlock's unusual behaviour. Whatever Mycroft had said to him seemed to have given him more to think about than the crime scene could offer and the detective had quickly wrapped up his deductions in an offhand, even uninterested fashion.

It was still sunny when they arrived home, the light coming in through the windows and heating the room to an almost uncomfortable level. It was the first time in weeks that the sun had shone and John had to admit that it made the flat look better, the light making the place appear bright and carefree as opposed to the oppressive dark that had been looming in the flat ever since Sherlock's disappearance. It was also the fresh blast of light that revealed to John just how bad the place actually looked and why it was that Mrs Hudson had been complaining for so long about tidying the place up. It was, quite frankly, a mess. There were still boxes of Sherlock's stuff lying around the room, an accumulation of dust that John hadn't had the energy to clean and Mrs Hudson hadn't had the heart to disturb him, a half unpacked mess of chemistry sets and dressing gowns lumped on the sofa from where John had started sorting thm and, perhaps most perturbing off all, mouldy items of food in the kitchen that were, for once, not part of any of Sherlock's experiments and instead food that John had neglected to eat, memories of the months past that were haunting him like a bad smell. _Come to think of it, _John thought as his nose scrunched up at the sunlit flat, _the smell is pretty bad. _

"I guess we should really clean this place up. I mean, a lot of your stuff isn't… unpacked yet," John said as he took in the mess as they arrived back home, "And it's starting to look like another explosion happened over here with all this dust and junk lying around." He looked back and tracked Sherlock as the taller man navigated his way over boxes to the mantelpiece, snatched off his mail from under the penknife stuck there and then traversed back to where John stood.

"You do that. I'm going out," he said. That was all he said. With nothing but a nonchalant gaze in John's general direction, Sherlock left, trotting down the steps at a lazy pace without so much as a goodbye or an explanation as to where he was going. John had the urge to run after him but by the time the surprise had left him, the door at the bottom of the hall had slammed and John was once again left alone.

He didn't know why he had been so surprised. Ever since Sherlock had got home he had been distant, like his mind was somewhere else and his body was just here to fill out an obligation, like he really had died from the fall and his corporeal form had simply decided that social protocol had demanded that he stay. And yet, Sherlock had seemed so much happier today when he had been on the case. It had seemed like he had got the old Sherlock back and yet now it was as if he had taken yet another step back, retreating away and into himself once more and John didn't even know whether to be surprised by that or not.

He sighed, pushing the thoughts away as he stared forlornly at the now emptied flat, realising that once again he had been left with nothing but the memories of a best friend that had been taken from him. He skimmed a hand over the dust gathering on the boxes, inspecting the layer with disdain as he consdired the amount of work it would take to restore this place to anywhere close to its old standards. He didn't even bother sitting on his chair, the familiar emptiness beginning to resound at the silence within the flat and he couldn't bear the thought of being sat ocne again in that same spot he had when Sherlock had been gone. Instead, he sat down tentatively on a large pile of the boxes, hoping that they were secure enough to hold his weight and he wouldn't be in danger of having to call Mrs Hudson to come and extricate him from a broken box should he fall in.

His caution almost didn't matter however as he felt a sudden zap to his leg and he almost let out a yell of surprise, teetering dangerously on his already precarious spot. He fumbled for his pocket, pulling out the offending item with a certain degree of chagrin and glared at the phone as it vibrated with an incoming call, making John's glower deepen.

"Hello?" he asked as he accepted the call, settling as best he could back into a comfortable position on the box.

"Sorry John, I know you've only just left but I'm just calling because I've just got into my office… the request I put in has turned up some unusual results once I tweaked it a bit after today's crime scene."

John placed the voice immediately and wondered if Lestrade had gone straight back to the station after they had left, perhaps only turning up at the scene to watch over Sherlock and himself as the Superintendent had seemed to be controlling the scene himself.

"Greg? What request?" John said. Usually Lestrade was a relatively straightforward man and was perhaps one of the most open, honest men that John knew and yet there was a tentativeness to the way he was speaking now, something that made John wonder if anyone else in Scotland Yard knew exactly what it was that Lestrade was looking into.

"You told me to look out for anything unusual, any criminal activity that didn't add up during the months that Sherlock was away but of course, I didn't know exactly what to look for, there were a lot of things going on after Moriarty was no longer around. So today, as soon as I got back from the crime scene, I made the search more specific, Sherlock said something about a sniper being responsible for the deaths and he also said that he had been trying to track down a sniper named Moran who had worked with Moriarty. Now, I couldn't find anything on Moran, but I narrowed the search down to look at any ex-military snipers who had showed up on our records and I found something interesting out."

John listened to Lestrade's low tone and knew that whoever had done this search for him had obviously been told to keep it under wraps. Lestrade was trying to keep this as quiet as he could, from the sound of it and the urgency of his voice told John that he wanted to get to the point as soon as possible.

"What did you find out?" John asked, having to check his own voice as he almost instinctually tried to match Lestrade's low tone before remembering that he had no reason to be whispering.

He heard the sound of a throat being cleared at the other end and he heard a door shut, imagining Lestrade getting up to casually seal off his office from onlookers and curious officers.

"Three ex-military snipers, previously on our records from everything from illegal drug possession to assault and battery, all went missing within those three months," Lestrade said. John frowned, the hollow feeling in his stomach only growing larger.

"Wha- What do you mean, missing? I mean, how can you tell? If they're criminals, isn't it their… well, job, to stay under the radar?" John asked.

"One of them was on parole, he was declared as missing after he missed one of his meetings. Apparently they looked into it and a friend of his, a more close range firearms specialist from Liverpool had been reported as missing too. The other one could be hiding out I guess but since he's usually at the station plenty for drunk driving and assault nearly every weekend, it does seem suspicious."

John nodded, the fact that Lestrade couldn't see him did nothing to stop the motion. He needed something physical, an action to perform, a few split seconds where his mind was focused on nothing but movement as his brain whirred to comprehend the information. Three snipers, all gone missing within the three months, put together with their hypothesis of what exactly had made Sherlock jump and-

"One of them lived on your street John; he was a maintenance man, apparently. And, get this, another one, lived in the flats right across from the station," Lestrade said and John could hear it now, the note of panic resonating in the D.I's voice, the sound of confusion and worry and fear, both of them lighting upon the idea and each wishing they could shy away from it, hide from the truth. It was too much of a coincidence for it not to be true. These men, whoever they were and wherever they had come from, had been what Moriarty had used again their friend. He had used _snipers to threaten them. _

The chill ran down John's back like a drip of icy water and he felt nauseous at the idea of having been at the mercy at yet another of Moriarty's gunmen, the memory of the incident at the pool, the flaming red dots burning a hole into him still today and he felt a surge of paranoia, brushing his hand against his jacket as if trying to brush off an invisible laser dot. He wondered how much that had been a factor in Sherlock's jump. He knew, beyond a doubt now, that he had discovered what it was that Sherlock was keeping from him. The unexplained "suicide", Moriarty dying, the missing snipers and Sherlock's reluctance to disclose any details at all of that day, what had _really _happened on the roof; it all added up to one thing. Sherlock had not only saved his life, and perhaps the life of Lestrade and whoever else Moriarty had threatened, but he had given everything to do so. Even his reputation, his work, his life. John wondered if those red dots still haunted Sherlock at all.

"You don't think that could have been why he-" John didn't get to hear Lestrade finish his sentence as his attention was dragged away from the phone by a loud knocking at the door downstairs, followed by a sharp rap of something solid against the glass in the window and John groaned, the effort to stand up seeming too much for him in his current, worn out state and he practically tumbled from his perch. Mrs Hudson was currently out grocery shopping as now that Sherlock was back, she insisted that they would need more food in the house, even though she was "not their housekeeper" and Sherlock didn't eat very much to begin with, let alone now that he has returned.

"John?"

John put his ear back to the phone, cursing his luck that someone had to be at the door right now, at a moment when not only was he still dealing with the fact that he had unknowingly been only one trigger squeeze away from death, but so was a friend on the other end of the phone. Plus, as a soldier he had, although he'd never quite gotten used to it, been in the line of fire before whereas Lestrade had not, at least not to the scale that they were talking about. A sniper had been aiming at their heads without them even knowing it and the only thing stopping them from pulling the trigger was a "semi highly-functioning sociopath". And perhaps the most unsettling thing of all was that neither John nor Lestrade could think of a person they would trust more with their lives.

"Listen, Greg, there's someone at the door; I've got to go get it. It could be Sherlock if he's not bothered to bring his key out with him," John doubted that Sherlock would be back already, especially without a key, but he could always hope, "Can you look into those missing men some more? See if you can find out anything about where they went or how Moriarty got to them?" John doubted if that would really do any good right now, especially with the situation already being as overwhelming as it was, but the unnerved sound of the other man's voice on the end of the phone also made the doctor part of him cry out, deciding to give Lestrade something to be busy with, rather than leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts as John knew from experience how dangerous that could be.

"Right. Right, I know," Lestrade said. Lestrade sounded as shaky as John felt, the full weight of what this meant coming crashing down upon them. All this time, John had been so angry, so empty and it had been because Sherlock had saved his life, once again. _I owe you so much. _John had said that at Sherlock's grave and yet, he didn't even know the half of what he owed the detective.

"Just, hold on okay, I'll call you back later," John promised.

The knocking had picked up again by the time John got downstairs, tossing his mobile over to the sofa as he left the room and heard it thud, realising that most of the sofa was almost invisible due to the boxes piled on it.

"Alright, I'm coming!" John shouted and then, quieter, "Stop being so bloody impatient." He wrenched the door open, half expecting to see an impatient looking Sherlock or an agitated police officer stood there when he did. Instead, John was greeted with the sight of a bored, condescending looking Mycroft. He looked like he was about to ask John what had taken him so long and he gritted his teeth. It was bad enough that Mycroft had the nerve to call him, as well as Sherlock, never mind turning up on their doorstep as if the last full conversation he and Mycroft had had alone without Sherlock being there hadn't been about how he had betrayed his younger brother to a dangerous lunatic.

"What are you doing here Mycroft?" John sighed and he held the door so that it turned inwards, shutting off the rest of the hallway from Mycroft's view and discouraging him from entering. The last thing he wanted was an argument with Sherlock when he got back to find his older brother having tea in the flat.

Mycroft dusted off the end of his umbrella, as if knocking on the glass with it had dirtied the point, before returning it to rest on the ground with a flourish that apparently only Mycroft could make look good.

"I'm here to see Sherlock, is he in?" Mycroft said. John scoffed, gesturing past Mycroft to where John could see the black car parked up, not-Anthea stood close by it. "If you were really here to see Sherlock, you'd know he wasn't in. One of your spies would have told you that."

Mycroft gave a chuckle. "I would hardly call them spies, Dr Watson," Mycroft said before his expression became serious again, "Sherlock's absence hasn't made you any less sharp at least, that's a good thing."

"What is it you want, Mycroft?" John interjected. He felt like Mycroft's appearance had instantly drained him, feeling impatient already. He really didn't want to have to deal with family feuds right now, especially not one as explosive as the one between the two Holmes brothers.

Mycroft's expression darkened slightly and he looked as if he was about to step forward to come into the flat but he didn't, instead simply deciding to shift his weight a little, like the question was an object that he had to dodge.

"I was actually hoping that he wouldn't be on. Had to make sure," Mycroft said, evading the question, "I was hoping to talk with you." John was halfway between deflating exasperatedly and rolling his eyes, both actions seeming fitting for the moment.

"We're talking right now," John said. There was a pause and Mycroft studied him for a second, much like Sherlock would when he was trying to decipher exactly what it was that John was feeling.

"You are angry that I… did what I did," Mycroft said.

"A genius deduction," John said dryly. Mycroft sighed.

"John, you must understand that I did what I had to do in order to fulfil the best needs of the country, I assure you that-"

"Don't give me that!" John snapped, his voice raising, enough for not-Anthea to hear and he saw her look up from her mobile, frowning, "I don't want to hear what you told the secret service or whoever you report to when they asked you what they did. You sold out your brother, that's it Mycroft, end of story."

He honestly didn't know what he expected. He didn't know if he expected Mycroft to flinch or to shout or to tell him that he was wrong, or maybe even right; but what he didn't expect was for Mycroft to simply stand there, unperturbed.

"I think we should probably talk inside, don't you Dr Watson? Before you draw any more attention to us. Sherlock wouldn't be too thrilled to hear from any of your neighbours that I was here at your flat," he said simply. John wanted to argue with that, to tell him that the neighbours didn't even know who he was and that Sherlock didn't talk to any of them to find out, at least to John's knowledge. He wanted to point out that if Mycroft wanted to keep a low profile, he shouldn't have turned up in the expensive black car. However, John knew that Mycroft had only made the excuse because he wanted to talk to John without the ever present threat of having the door slammed shut on him and John didn't want to argue for the sake of that. So, growling a curse to himself, he widened the gap in the door and retreated inside, Mycroft following him in a few seconds later.

The look of disapproval was evident on Mycroft's face as he looked over the still-present boxes in the flat. John tried to ignore it, deliberating if he should sit or stand. Standing would put him on the offensive, no doubt putting the point across that he really, really didn't think Mycroft should be in the flat, but he also couldn't really be bothered with the conflict and so decided to deposit himself heavily on one of the wooden chairs that wasn't covered in Sherlock's chemistry sets and laptop.

"I love what you've done with the place," Mycroft said and the dry, falsified sincerity to his tone made John's skin prickle angrily.

"We've not got round to cleaning it yet," John retaliated. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"'We'? You mean Sherlock and yourself? Or you and Mrs Hudson? I can't imagine my brother tidying this place up Dr Watson, no matter how good a… _friend _he is to you," Mycroft said and there was a tone of bitterness to it that didn't sound quite right on the usually tight façade that Mycroft often held in place. He said "friend" almost as if he was unfamiliar with the word, like he had never imagined that Sherlock could have gained a friend.

"He might," John said, although he himself knew it was a lie. Mycroft's tone had put him off guard and he felt unsure as to what exactly was coming next, what it was Mycroft wanted.

"Hmm," Mycroft gave a non-descript sound, his eyes surveying over the mess before they fell back to John almost wearily. "I take it you've spoken to Father at some point," Mycroft asked and John blinked, the question catching him unaware.

"Sorry?"

"Robert Holmes, I presume you have spoken to him?" Mycroft repeated. John nodded cautiously.

"Yeah," he said slowly, "Why? What does that matter?" He thought for a moment. "That's what you called about today. You called Sherlock to talk to him about your dad?" Mycroft bristled at John's mention of Robert Holmes and John wondered why assigning the man as "your dad" was such a bad thing.

"I needed to… discuss some things with Sherlock," Mycroft said. John scowled.

"Discuss some things? So you've come here to tell me you've discussed things with Sherlock but you're not going to tell me what they are?"

"They're of no importance Dr Watson."

John exhaled with a puff of annoyed air, trying not to let Mycroft's cryptic response get to him.

"No importance, right. Okay, so, what exactly is it that you're here for? Or did you just turn up to look at the flat? Make sure I was going to clean it? Do you even have your cameras in here anymore?" Mycroft didn't reply, suddenly finding his umbrella a lot more interesting than John, drawing his gaze away from the younger man to inspect the handle. Eventually, almost when John thought he wouldn't get a reply, Mycroft spoke.

"I'm here because I need you to look after my brother, John," Mycroft said.

John gaped. It wasn't the first time John had heard Mycroft ask him to look after Sherlock. The first time he had ever met Mycroft had been a warning to stay away from the consultant but it was also a test to see if he was loyal enough to be Sherlock's flatmate and friend. Mycroft had been worried that, like so many other people, John was going to hurt his younger brother and ever since he had been trusting John to look after him. And yet now the words seemed alien, coming from Mycroft. The quiet, redundant plea sounded out of place coming from someone who had struggled to keep their brother safe from Moriarty and it sounded even stranger when one considered the idea that John was no longer on exactly good terms with the older Holmes brother.

"You want me to look after him?" John echoed. Mycroft nodded, continuing.

"It's none of my business to get involved when it comes to Father but I feel like I need to take certain… precautions," Mycroft supplied.

"Precautions? What precautions? What is it that makes you both so… edgy around your dad? It's the same with Sherlock, he jumps on the man's every word and you-"

"He is dangerous, Dr Watson," Mycroft snarled and the intensity of his words shocked John, "He is dangerous because he does what he wants, when he wants and no-one is able to stop him. He cares about no-one and what I am saying to you, doctor, is that I need you to keep Sherlock from getting hurt." The words were spat so forcefully from Mycroft's mouth it was as if they were dowsed in arsenic and John had never heard his professional title being said with such malice and yet, the malice wasn't exactly directed towards him. He was, after all, still waiting for Mycroft to call the man his father, not just Sherlock's.

"Sounds familiar," John said, "Does what he wants, when he wants. Cares about no-one. Sounds like you two are more alike than you think." He knew the words were cold but there was still a rawness in his stomach, the burning anger that wouldn't go away. It was the memory of the fact that Sherlock could have died and the man responsible for that was dead and there was nothing John could do to avenge what he had been through. The only thing he could do to ease the sharp pain in his gut was to attack the next in line to responsibility, even if he knew it was wrong to do so. Because, if he had to be honest with himself, that person wasn't Mycroft. In his own mind, it was himself. For not being fast enough, not working it out, for not being there with him to help him. But he had already done self-destruction and now the only thing left to do to try and ease the still burning fury was to lash out at someone else. And yet, the pain still hurt.

"I am nothing like him," Mycroft growled. John gave a bitter laugh.

"Yeah, that's rich coming from you. Remind me again which paper that article got published in? Did you even read it? That was a lot of detail-"

"I have done worse things than give details out about Sherlock, Dr Watson. Even if it was to a person like Moriarty. It's the reason why I am asking you to keep Sherlock safe. He won't listen to me."

John allowed himself a few moments to let the words sink in and the quiet regret and desperation, the helplessness that was so uncharacteristic in Mycroft's voice made John's heart soften and he sighed, pity coming over him. He wouldn't forgive what had happened, but for now he knew that they both wanted to keep Sherlock safe.

"What is it Mycroft? What have you done that's made him mistrust you that much?" John asked. He waited and Mycroft's expression changed from helpless to closed-off in a matter of seconds, nothing but silence filling the air.

John never got to ask the question again as the both heard the door shut downstairs, the sound of shoes jogging up the stairs making Mycroft grimace and John saw Sherlock bounding up the stairs.

"John, the sniper from the case, I think-" Sherlock stopped midsentence and John would have laughed if not for the tension in the air, Sherlock's face turning into an instant pout, hair mussed from running, cheeks slightly tinged red as they did when they had been running on a case.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, the formal tone immediately springing into full force, "What are you doing here?" John's mind kicked back to watch the firework display that was no doubt about to ensue, deciding that the question of what Mycroft was doing at 221B was a topic of hot discussion with everyone today apparently.

Mycroft tilted his head up arrogantly and John almost smiled at the familiar movement. Arguing was easier if he wasn't involved and in all honesty, he appreciated the break, even though the rational part of his mind was telling him he should probably step in at some point soon.

"Questions about your welfare, brother," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock glowered at him, not moving from where he had stood, frozen in the doorway.

"I don't need your help, Mycroft," Sherlock scowled before adding, "I saw your car outside. I take it you skipped the cake at lunchtime so you could take the car here? You wouldn't want to put on any weight."

John raised an eyebrow, the jab being more brutal than usual and he felt his mind shift into Holmes Watch gear, waiting for the right moment to jump in if necessary. Mycroft shot Sherlock a glare.

"I've been losing weight, actually," Mycroft retaliated, "As for you needing my help, of course you don't. After all, you're the expert on Father, Sherlock. You seem to have forgotten however that he left us." John's eyebrows shot up at that, interest piqued. He knew very little about Sherlock's father and although the newspaper article had told him some things about his childhood, a sick mother, a father in the police, it hadn't mentioned that his father had left, instead focusing on his mother's trips in and out of hospital, the school bullies and the extraordinary deductive skills. He was interested to know more about their father however the curiosity didn't last long as Sherlock quickly put a stop to it, glaring murderously at Mycroft.

"Well," he snarled, "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you Mycroft?"

John couldn't see all of Mycroft's face but the look of wounded shock was plain to see and for a moment he was at a loss for words.

"Goodbye Mycroft. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Sherlock snapped. Mycroft seemed to want to say something, opened and closed his mouth and instead decided to keep quiet. He turned to look at John, nodding, his eyes saying something that John couldn't quite read before he shot one last look at Sherlock and left.

* * *

"Well, that went well," John said, feigning brightness a s Sherlock glared his brother out. Sherlock shrugged, walking to the sofa, realising it was unusable and instead flopped on the chair.

"Mm," Sherlock made a sound of agreement, apparently not caring that John was being sarcastic, "It went alright." Sherlock picked up his violin, tucked it under his chin and began to play, the song sounding vaguely familiar but not one that Sherlock played often. Usually, John would let it go, allowing Sherlock his idiosyncrasy and putting it down to Sherlock just being Sherlock. But today it felt different, it felt like Sherlock was keeping him entirely separate from the situation, like the music was a wall of sound to cut him off and the feeling hurt.

He made a sound of frustration as he stood up, wishing that this wasn't how things was, not wanting the confrontation or the stress that this would no doubt bring, while being unable to let it continue. If not because it was uncomfortable, but because it felt pretty damn lonely.

"At least he was doing something, Sherlock, which is a lot more than what I've been doing," John said over the music. Sherlock looked over at him but continued to play, not pausing in it. John sighed, moving to lean against the sofa, realising that this was probably the first time since Sherlock had returned that they had been closer than a metre apart, except from in the taxi to the crime scene, because Sherlock had insisted on being out of the flat more times than he was in, being restless even when he was inside.

"Sherlock will you quit it?" John snapped, "Just stop, okay?" John's temper flared and he couldn't help how the words came out, harsher than he had wanted them too but he reasoned that at least they did the trick as Sherlock's violin came to a smooth halt, the tune playing to what seemed like a natural resting point that Sherlock had easily transitioned into. The bow whipped the air as Sherlock flicked it down to rest lazily by his side.

"There's no need to be so dramatic," Sherlock said smoothly and John had to grit his teeth at Sherlock's infuriating response.

"Listen Sherlock," John began, "You've been different since you came back and I, well I've not done a thing about it because I don't want to push. But you're cutting yourself off, you're not talking, you're not eating. You're not sleeping either, I know because I can hear you bumping around in here at night or on your violin or whatever else you're doing. And that'd be all well and good and well, normal, if you were on a case, but you're not. And you're not talking to me about it, which is probably the worst thing."

Sherlock gave him an odd look, halfway between calculating and observing, utterly penetrating and John felt uncomfortable under the stare, as if Sherlock was deducing exactly what to say to try and end the conversation, matching each possibility to its response.

"Those habits don't seem to be too different from what I would normally display," Sherlock said finally.

"Yes, but Sherlock-" John floundered for a second. He knew that Sherlock's behaviour could be described as usual for him, but in practice it wasn't the same. Sherlock was being distant and he knew it.

"It's different," John finished lamely and Sherlock gave him a sceptical look, making John scowl.

"You know you're doing it!" John cried, "You make an effort to not be in the same room as me, you avoid talking to me, you-"

"Why would I do that? It's illogical to try and avoid you since you're my flatmate so-"

"I don't know Sherlock! You've been like it since you came back and you're doing it on purpose and-" John stopped, the realisation crashing down on him like a tonne of bricks. Sherlock knew what he was doing and he had been doing it ever since he came back, pushing John away with such determination, as if Sherlock was too dangerous to be around, as if he was keeping him away for a reason.

"You're doing it on purpose," John repeated, voice dropping to almost a whisper.

"What?"

"You're doing it to try and protect me, aren't you?" John asked him. Sherlock scoffed, giving him an incredulous expression.

"What? John, that's ridiculous. Protect you from what?" Sherlock said, "Just because we're flatmates doesn't mean we have to be close-"

"You said I was your only friend," John interjected, "I'm not just your flatmate Sherlock, I'm your friend and I know what's going on! You're pushing me away for the same reason I'm frightened of you leaving the flat. I worry every time you go out because the last time I left you on your own, I didn't see you again for three months and thought you were dead! And you, you're pushing me away for the same reason!"

"John-"

"I know why you jumped, Sherlock! I know what you were trying to do, you were trying to save us. Lestrade and I worked it out. There were snipers, weren't they? You did it to protect us-"

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock snapped and John could tell that he was getting irritated, the words making him defensive. He had hit a chord.

"Am I? You're doing it now, trying to keep me safe by trying to keep me from knowing. Well, it may come as a surprise Sherlock, but I'm a grown man, I can look after myself! I don't need you to try and keep from this, okay? For God's sake Sherlock, I understand where you're coming from, the less friends you have, the less risk they'll be in if this happens again but you can't just push me away!" John cried, "Let me at least help you with this! I'm your friend for God's sake, it's what friends are supposed to do!"

"Friends are not supposed to let the other get put into danger!" Sherlock yelled and he stood up, turning his back to John angrily as if he was making for the door but John ran around the other side of the chair, cutting him off and trying to meet his eye.

"Sherlock, wait, listen-"

"No, John-"

"Don't you think I feel bad?" John shouted. Sherlock's eyes met his as John's voice rose and John felt almost guilty for shouting. "Don't you think I feel bad for not being there to help you?" John asked, quieter.

"I sent you away," Sherlock reasoned.

"I should have known."

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. "You couldn't have possibly, I made sure you wouldn't." John smiled at that. It sounded like Sherlock again, pompous but with a hint of affection that made John's chest puff out in pride, knowing he was getting past the mask that Sherlock had drawn up, revealing the old Sherlock beneath. Sighing, he pressed forward a little further.

"Listen, Sherlock, I knew what I was getting into when I became your friend. You're not exactly a normal flatmate. But… that day, we both did things that we thought we had to and we both made mistakes and… what I'm saying is that, quite frankly, I'm just glad you're back. I just want my friend back Sherlock. Even if it gets me into trouble, that's what friendship is for. I can't just stick around when times are easy, I've got to stay when they get rough too."

Sherlock listened in silence, the silence prolonging after John had stopped talking. He looked like he was going to say something but it never came out and in the end, he kept it to himself. Instead, he simply nodded, the understanding clear even as he disconnected the eye contact between them. John felt something relax in his chest and he let out a shaky exhale, seeing the change in Sherlock's demeanour almost instantly, seeing the old Sherlock creep out in the man's body language, in the way he looked at him and then, finally, how he spoke to him.

"Chinese?" Sherlock said and John laughed, a proper laugh that made every tight muscle in his body relax.

"Fancy Indian actually," John said and Sherlock gave a half shrug in agreement.

Sherlock Holmes was finally home at last.

* * *

John didn't mention it the day after, yesterday having been the first day he had actually spent with his friend, just Sherlock and nothing else, in three months, but he knew that Sherlock had slept better that night. Although John hadn't seen him asleep, there had been no sounds from the living room, no clinking of chemical equipment or a tune from a violin, no nightmares or pacing up and down and, thankfully, no gunshots. It would probably return when a case opened up but, for now, Sherlock was resting and, more importantly, he was back to his old self, or at least, almost. There were still moments of awkwardness where Sherlock used to fill in with an insult or a joke and it was as if the months on his own had rusted up what social skills he did have but speaking to John seemed to be easier for him and he was able to make up for it moments later with a witticism or a deduction that was oh-so-Sherlock that it made John grin.

John knew that Sherlock would get better now that the shield was down and that, with practice, he would return to himself in no time, the months alone being slowly filtered away, though never completely gone. All that really mattered right now was that Sherlock was back, for real this time and John didn't think he'd been this happy in months.

* * *

_**A/N Okay, so, sappy end to this chapter but I felt it was important to show that John was right in his confrontation and that our Sherlock is finally back! Not to say that that'll stay but for now he's back to his usual self XD Anyway, criticism is muchly, muchly appreciated and I love each and every review sent, so please don't be afraid to say hi! :) I love talking to all you guys, you're awesome :D Anyways, I'll be back with chapter 14 and until then, have a great week guys! **_


	14. Carnage

_**A/N: Hello my dearest, dearest readers! I'm back! (For now at least) I've somehow managed to get my Windows OS working enough to post this but I dunno how long this'll last so I can't make any promises about the punctuality of updates D': Currently it is 6am over here and this is my 2.5 rewrite of this as it has been deleted twice by my phone & laptop and I'm supposed to be up at 8am today D': Basically having pulled an all nighter to bring this to you because you all deserve it for being so patient and wonderful and I owe you guys so much :) **_

_**On the same note, I am so, so, so, so sorry for how late this is o.O As I explained in the note, my laptop was dead as a dodo, absolutely ruined and it only got worse after the notice, causing this to be even later D': So again, I am so very sorry D': However, it is soooo good to be back XD Thank you so much for your patience and kind words of encouragement :) To sh, Catwoman and lolki, as I cannot reply to you personally, may I just say thank you for your kind reviews and encouragement :) Hope this new instalment is not too late for you and I'm glad you like the story so far :) To Anonymus, I too share your love for H/C, you're not alone! Really glad you like the story, thanks very much for your review! :) **_

_**As for notices, um… this chapter is reaaalllly long, so apologies for that D': It also contains mild profanity, nothing we've not had before but again, I'm sorry if it offends anyone, feel free to message me about it if it does. I'm a bit worried about this chapter as it's been re-wrote so many times due to losing data so I'm not happy with how it's lost some of its original spark but I dunno how it reads so I'll just have to take your words for it :) But on a plus note, yay because we get to meet more of Harry as I've been wanting to write her for a while now and I had fun with her XD I loves her character and we've not even met canon her yet XD**_

_**Disclaimer: After 12 buckets of tears, 42 boxes of tissues and a few cuddled-out monkeys, I was forced to go see John's psychiatrist to cure my depression. We talked about the Sherlock hiatus, how my flying monkeys torment me and never let me eat the last cupcake in the cupboards, my terrible, terrible laptop issues and it turns out, she's pretty messed up too. She's had to listen to John talk about Sherlock for all this time and she's not been able to slap him and say "What are you doing sat here?! Go! Go talk to your Sherlock! Comfort him!" Now **_**that**_** is torture. **_

* * *

Harry Watson didn't exactly grimace but John saw the disdain in her eyes as he placed the cup of tea on the table. It was a familiar expression, at least for a sober Harry and it was normal for her to develop a dislike for liquids other than alcohol during her detox period. The change in expression was tiny and although John knew that he should be pleased at the evidence of Harry's sobriety, he found himself holding back a sigh. The first time Harry had tried to stop drinking after Clara had left, he had met it with nothing but enthusiasm, the same as the second time she tried it. The third time was more tough and John was ashamed to say that it was then when the irritation and hopeless had set in. It had been a rough point for both of them and it had ended in them not talking for several months. Now, on attempt four, John didn't know if he had the courage to muster up any semblance of hope for its success.  
"So, um… how are you?" John asked awkwardly. He hadn't had a face to face conversation with his sister for almost a year now and, he noticed, it showed.  
Harry nodded, like it answered John's question and shifted in her seat, her hand moving as if to reach for the tea but then passing it by untouched. They both stared at the cup for a while, as if the answers were laying in its contents.

"Good," Harry said eventually, "I've been good."

John didn't call her out on the lie, knowing it had been told to placate him but all the same they both knew that it was untrue. Harry wasn't always like this, john remembered times, good times, when Harry had honestly smiled without a drink in her hand, but they both knew now that, for now, things weren't alright without her drinking.

"How have you been?" she said.

John thought about that. To try and explain how he had been, from Sherlock's death (which Harry knew about only from his blog as he had not answered any of her texts or calls to him) to his return, would be a near on impossible feat. He didn't know if he could describe the devastating emptiness and weight to the overwhelming joy and relief and now the following confusion as he waited for Sherlock to come to terms with his own emotions. The detective had gone out early this morning on a case for Lestrade, insisting that John should keep to his plans to go see his sister. The Sherlock that John knew was back, even if that brought back the issue of Sherlock's inability to deal with emotions, as even last night Sherlock had refused to talk about what had happened on the roof that day, this morning he'd avoided talking about his father at all when Lestrade had called. Which, John mused, was the same old Sherlock as ever.

"I'm okay," John sighed finally, deciding that even trying to explain would be a fruitless effort.

There was another prolonged silence and John took a drink of his tea to fill it. He was pretty sure that the slight taste of alcohol in the cup was imagined but he placed it back on the table all the same, not touching it again.

"I read on your blog that your flatmate… Sherlock? It said that he was, well…" she seemed to flounder for words.

"Isn't dead?" he suggested. He had almost completely forgotten about the rushed blog post he had thrown out onto his site a few days after Sherlock's return and it came to him now that he hadn't even checked for any replies to it, from anyone.

Harry nodded. "So, what, he just showed up all of a sudden?" she said and John smiled at that because it sounded like she'd have happily punched Sherlock in the mouth right then and there had he been present, in retaliation for scaring her brother and that definitely sounded more like the Harry that John knew and loved. It reminded him of the time when he'd just entered his sixth form college and had been messing around one winter on the frozen lake near his school when the ice had cracked through, sending him plunging into the freezing water below. He didn't remember much else besides screaming out a lungful of icy water and his hands trying to scramble for the surface but what he did know was that none of his "friends" had been brave enough to try and save him, scared of the ice breaking and so leaving him in the freezing cold while they ran away. When John had finally crawled out of the hole in the ice, shivering and retching up water, he had walked the way home. He didn't know how his sister had found out exactly what had happened but she did and the very next day John had seen his "friends" walking around with black eyes and one of them even had a broken nose. Harry was suspended for fighting, along with two other of her guy friends but when asked about it, all she had done was wink at John and said that her own black eye had come from banging her head on a cupboard. She'd been grounded for the week after that and had spent the whole time telling John to find better friends.

"Yeah," John said with a shrug, "I suppose so, I mean, he explained how he had done it and I figured out why, so-"

"Wait, he didn't _tell _you why? He left you to figure out why he _faked his own death?_" she asked and the tone was dangerous and for a second John was worried about how safe exactly Sherlock was when his sister was around. She already blamed him for getting him into danger, even though she knew how much John enjoyed living with Sherlock and going on cases with him.

"I don't know, he just… he's not like that, Harry. He was pretty angry with me when I told him that I knew. I mean, he did I to save my life and Lestrade's and Mrs Hudson's lives. He did it so we'd be safe but every time I try to bring it up, he avoids it or shutters down on me," John admitted. He felt like he was a kid again, telling Harry all his problems because he knew she'd fix them. Harry was always a tomboy growing up, feisty yet caring and John always felt safe telling Harry things because usually she'd always come up with the right thing to do, mixing together feminine intuition with her usual feisty, ready-to-go self and coming up with the perfect solution.

Harry seemed to think about that for a second and there was that expression on her face that John remembered from times in his childhood when he had asked her for advice and she had stared into space with a mix of deep thought and amusement at her brother's antics on her face.

"Is it bothering you?" she asked. John sighed and shrugged, looking at his tea and for a second wished that it really did have a hint of alcohol in it so that it would take the edge off of the question. In all honesty, he could leave the subject. He could never talk about it again, Sherlock would never bring it up and it would become a taboo, simply a subject that was left to sit quietly, never spoken of but always there, like Moriarty or Irene Adler. And John could deal with that. And yet, even though he didn't want to admit it out loud for fear that once he did, it would be permanent, he couldn't deal with the reason it would become a taboo. He didn't want to think that he had left the subject alone, leaving it like a threat in the air when all the while, Sherlock seemed to think it was something he did. For some reason, Sherlock was ashamed of it, never talking about it and John had to be honest. It bothered him.

His sister seemed to recognise his reluctance to answer and nodded, responding to an answer that John hadn't given but she had inferred anyway.

"It's bothering you now, I can see it," she said.

"No, it's not, it's just-"

"John Hamish Watson, I might not have spoken to you in while but that doesn't mean I've stopped being able to read you, you know. Your about as obvious as you can be and if anyone knows that about my kid brother, it's me," Harry grinned and John scowled at her playfully, knowing that she was right, despite the fact John really wished she couldn't read him as easily as she could. She may not have Sherlock's deductive prowess or a degree like John did, but she was a lot smarter than most people took her for, especially their parents. Although their mother had always been proud of John, dinner was always an uncomfortable affair for the whole family as Harry had become the epitome of disappointment for her mother. John always remembered the day that Harry had told their mother about her partner and, later on, the split. He had been over in Afghanistan during the separation but he remembered them getting together, the first time his mother had met Clara. John never talked about that day and Harry didn't either, leaving the memories to rest where they did.

"Have you told him that it's bothering you yet?" Harry asked and John gave a soft snort of laughter.

"Have I tried to talk to Sherlock Holmes about feelings? Um… no, surprisingly no," John said, voice drawling with sarcasm and Harry leaned over to give him a light shove to his shoulder.

"Alright, no need for sarcasm," Harry said, "I forgot he's a bit… crazy when it comes to the feelings stuff." John raised an eyebrow but let the comment slide. After all, even he had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was a little closer to a shade of crazy than he'd care to admit living with.

"You know," Harry continued, "I looked that up online and I heard that all those kind of traits can be put down to that Asperger's syndrome. It said that they have problems with emotions and everything, it sounds just like-"

John gave a laugh. "Harry, I don't think Sherlock's got Asperger's," he said.

"Why not? He's got the personality for it"

"Well, yeah, I know but… Sherlock's a little different. Scientifically it could be a whole tonne of things but… Sherlock's just Sherlock. It's the way he is; I don't know how to explain it. He's just different. He's got a personality of his own; sometimes I think he's not even human but then others… I don't know, inside he's got a good heart. People don't really see it but… he's got it where it counts," John said. He was surprised at himself. Usually he would never say so much to someone else about Sherlock, not even to Sherlock's own brother, usually sufficing with a "Sherlock's just the way he is" or "he's fine" but after not seeing Harry for so long and seeing her sober for the first time in so long, it was good. It reminded him of all the time he had spent as a kid telling her things, talking none stop at his sister and only his sister, sealing up like a clam whenever it came to talking to his parents, supplying only the answers that was required of him. He had been a sociable child, growing up to be a popular and well-liked youth, but as a child even being sociable usually only required him to say what was needed in order to make friends and impress people. Overall, his sister had probably heard him speak more words than anyone else in the world had altogether, except from perhaps Sherlock. It felt good to be talking to her once again after so many months of pained silence, refusing to talk to her until she was sober, until she was Harry again.

"I'm just saying, if he did have it, it'd explain your predicament," Harry said. John gave her a confused look.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know, the whole not understanding emotions thing. I mean, from the sounds of it, Sherlock's feeling bad for some reason about this whole thing. Like, guilty or something," she said. John nodded, agreeing. Sherlock had yet to say anything yet but the impression of something similar to guilt, maybe even regret was there and as of yet John had been unable to determine the cause of it.

"What does that have to do with him not getting other people's feelings?" John said, feeling more confused now than he had before talking to Harry. Sherlock was bad at both interpreting and having emotional responses to things, but he could do it. He was unsure as to what Harry was trying to get at.

"If social situations give him so much trouble, it's possible that while he's done what he has to save your life, he still feels guilty because he's been thinking about your feelings at the same time and he's kind of got them… muddled," Harry said.

"Muddled?" John asked, perplexed, "I'm not feeling guilty, why would I?" Harry gave a frustrated noise as if she couldn't quite get her point across and John thought back to when she used to give him biology quizzes for his A Levels and she had had trouble giving him clues to the answers.

"No… I mean, he's been trying to consider how you feel. Coming back after three months, he's obviously going to want to have "data", as he'd put it, if your blog is anything to go by, on how you're feeling. And so far, he's seen that you're relieved but you were angry with him I bet, to begin with, right?"

John nodded.

"So, he's seen you angry. He's seen how upset you were after he died. He saw your blog die into nothingness after he left and he's known how lonely you've been. Overall, all he's seen is how much pain it's caused you because of what he did," Harry explained, "He hasn't seen how grateful you are for what he did… I might be wrong but it's kind of like when we used to do something bad as a kid and we used to have to apologise to our mum and dad. We knew they'd still love us but we always felt guilty afterwards because we saw how disappointed they were. I dunno, maybe Sherlock thinks he's done nothing but hurt you and he's feeling guilty for it."

John gave himself time to absorb Harry's words and the longer he thought about it, the more the realisation sunk in. He'd been so wrapped up in his anger and pain that Sherlock had taken it that he had done something wrong. He was feeling guilty, when all the while John could understand what he had done and why. It was more than a misunderstanding, it was the lost boy that John had seen so often in Sherlock, trying to find his way through a forest of sentiments and "human interactions" that Sherlock struggled so much with. It wasn't that he had no feelings, John had seen them first hand, knew that Sherlock's feelings were actually stronger and more pure than those of most people's, his loyalty and friendship being second to none, even when they were slightly unconventional and yet, he still took time to process each new one as it came along. It had taken him months to finally call John his friend and he wondered if this was the same principle.

Harry managed to catch his eye and she looked inquisitively at him. "I mean, have you even said thank you to him yet?"

John blinked as the sky fell down on top of him. It felt as if the heavens had had their strings cut and they had simply collapsed on top of him, their weight pressing down on him. _Oh God. _After everything, all the arguments and the worrying and the talks, after John forgiving him and Sherlock telling John the truth about so many things, John had forgotten the most simple thing of all, losing it in Sherlock's complex manners and personality. He had yet to simply say thank you. He knew that he had implied it, maybe even mentioned the words during their conversations or arguments but he realised that he had never simply said the words earnestly to the man who had saved his life, instead substituting it with attempts to understand him and get through to him when all the while John knew now that all Sherlock really needed to hear was that he was appreciated, that he had done the right thing. Guilt felt like an insistently humming swarm of bees as it surrounded John and he stared, mortified, at his sister.

Her mouth formed an "o" shape and she widened her eyes in a look of surprise, like she had received a particularly disturbing piece of gossip. "Oh," she said simply, "That'd probably be why he's so confused." John closed his eyes and groaned, bowing his head into his hands.

"Oh God," he groaned, "I can't believe it… all this time… I'm an idiot"

"Well," Harry said, voice still light, "I've been trying to tell you that for years but you with your fancy degree wouldn't listen to me." She grinned at him when he finally looked up and he gave her a defeated look, knowing that she had once again solved a puzzle that he could not. Sometimes he wondered how his sister hadn't been snatched up by one of Mycroft's lot yet. If not for the drinking, he was pretty sure his sister could sort out most of the world's problems over a cup of tea.

"What do I do?" John asked, mortification and regret sweeping through him. His sister gave him a soft smile and a chuckle and her calm in situations such as this was infectious. While Harry was often noisy and boisterous, always up for a chat with anyone and being even noisier when drunk, she did also have a calm, focused side that very rarely came out. It was at times of family crisis or when she was giving advice to her "kid brother" or, previously, when with Clara that she instantly settled into an infectiously determined, steady state that John had always loved. Harry was always the best person to ask help for when it came to solving problems.

"It's simple John, really, to say you're a doctor you can be useless sometimes," she joked, "All you have to do is simply say thank you to him. No messing around, no analysing, just a simple "Sorry for being an idiot. Thanks for saving my life." All he needs to know is that you approve and that you appreciate it, that's all. It's not rocket science John."

John didn't register the words for a second, his mind still stuck in its own thoughts. How had he missed this? How had he forgotten something so simple, yet so pivotal? Eventually he caught up with himself and jerked his head in acknowledgement, already considering how that conversation would turn out with Sherlock.

"Yeah," he finally said and he gave a weak smile, "You actually might be right there."

"I know I'm right," Harry retorted, "You always did look too close into things, it's why you ended up a doctor."

"I thought I ended up a doctor because I was good at it?"

"Well," Harry grinned, "You're okay at it. Honestly, you'd be nowhere without me."

John laughed and although the banter felt familiar, like the same old joking they would have as kids, there was a tension there; something that still made his laugh sound hollow and the air tingle a little with unspoken words. He sighed, knowing that there was still an elephant sitting in the room that was yet to be addressed and Harry had unwittingly uncovered it with her words. Where exactly would he be without Harry? It was an odd question as Harry had had many different roles as John had grown up, each changing into the next with no definitive turning point until recently she had become something of an odd part in John's life, which was saying something as the life he lived now was odd in its own right. It felt as if she longer slotted anywhere quite like she used to, the months of silence making it difficult to place her and it was only now that John could see her perhaps slotting back in somewhere. However, he had come so close to losing his sister to the alcohol problem that even her joking words haunting him and he shifted uncomfortably, preparing himself for the question that needed asking. He saw her catch his eye and she too appeared to ready herself for it.

"The Christmas before Sherlock went away… he said something. Sherlock can be a real idiot sometimes because he just doesn't think how people might react to…" he trailed off, knowing that he was simply trying to delay the inevitable, "He said, and it's not to say that I believe him or anything, but he said that you had… started drinking again. And, you look fine now, I mean, you're doing great, but… seriously… I need to know Harry."

The silence was thick and tense and Harry didn't move, hardly even breathed for a second or two.

"Christmas," she said slowly and John nodded, waiting for the lie he knew would come. His sister sighed and sat back in her chair, her back pushing hard into the backrest like she was literally trying to force the memories from her body.

"I heard that… Clara had met someone. At a Christmas party of all things." There was a bitter laugh after that and it was part way between cynical and self-loathing and the sound of it made John's blood simmer. "I don't know exactly what happened but I heard that she had met a woman from her work place at the office do. Dunno her name, pretty girl though I bet. Bet she's miles younger than me." John felt like he should offer some reassurance but Harry's bitter expression stopped him.

"So I went out. Got pissed as a lord with a few mates of mine and generally had a right old Christmas really," she said but the words sounded hollow, forced and John knew that although it wasn't the whole truth, it had probably been more than one night and she'd probably drunk herself unconscious, but there was also another lie in there, a falsity to her apparently happy tone. She hadn't enjoyed it and John knew it.

Apparently she knew that she didn't have him fooled and she visibly caved, looking down at her lap, staring at her hands before she spoke again.

"I kind of regret it now. I felt bad for days after. I was too ashamed to tell you but apparently your flatmate already knew. How the hell did he know that by the way?" she added and John shrugged.

"It's just Sherlock, he knows these things. I don't know how the hell he does it either half the time," he admitted, before adding, "I'm glad. Not that you went out drinking or that you feel bad but… at least it's a step. Not wanting to let me down, I appreciate that Harry, I really do. And after that, you've been doing okay right?" Harry nodded, shooting a look at the tea on the coffee table as if to prove a point.

"Yeah, been living the high life," Harry said sarcastically and it was almost cutting, the way she said it sounding almost accusatory but her face turned immediately apologetic and she let out a frustrated breath.

John smiled in a way that he hoped showed her how grateful he was. She knew this meant a lot to him and, with any luck, it could be what helped her beat it, this time at least.

"I mean it Harry, I appreciate it. It's… it's been good talking to you today. You're more like yourself, you seem better," John said and then he added, teasingly, "You're one of the cool kids again." Harry laughed at the familiar brotherly taunt and John saw her eyes glitter like they never used to when she was drinking and he couldn't help but grin.

"Me? I was never one of the cool kids and you knew it!"

"Yeah right, you used to hang out with all the guys," John smirked.

"Only because I was the only girl in the class who could kick their asses!"

"Okay, well you've got a fair point there, but-"

John was cut off as a mobile phone rang and it took him a few moments to realise that it was his as he had been forced to buy a new one after his last one had ended in pieces. He smiled at Harry as she gestured at him to pick it up and he answered it, sitting back in his chair.

"Hello?" he answered, recognising the number as the Baker Street number. If it was Sherlock to call about if he'd eaten the cereal with the gunpowder in it again, he was gonna-

"John? Oh John, thank goodness. I've already called Sherlock, he said he's on his way and he said that that police man was going to come with him. Greg is it? They're on their way-"

"Mrs Hudson?" John hadn't expected the voice that came down the phone to him and his confusion multiplied as he listened to her panicked rant, "What is it? Are you alright?" John's protective instincts flared as although she was simply their landlady, Mrs Hudson had become a dear friend to both John and Sherlock, surprisingly so to the latter as she had become an almost surrogate mother to them both while at Baker Street and both of her boys were protective of her.

"I only popped out for a minute to the shops, I never thought…" she seemed to have to reign her thoughts back in, worry and agitation making her skittish, "There's been a break-in John, in your flat. They've made such a mess and the damage they've done to some of it, you wouldn't believe, I-"

"A break in?" John interrupted.

"Well, yes, I think so. There are things everywhere, like they were looking for something. I don't know what Sherlock's got up there that they're looking for but all his dressing gown pockets seem to be okay, so…"

John smiled at that, despite the situation. Mrs Hudson knew all of Sherlock's hiding spots, like a mother finding where her teenage son had hidden his possessions. _At least she's not hurt, _John thought, remembering the last time someone had hurt Mrs Hudson, back when they had met Irene Adler.

"Alright, I'm coming, I'll be there as soon as I can," John said and he heard Mrs Hudson thank him before she hung up. Harry was looking over at him anxiously and he could see that she was worried for him.

"There's been a break in at your flat?" she said, sounding just as shocked as he felt.

"Yeah," John said numbly, "She's already told Sherlock but… I gotta get back, the place is a mess and as of yet we don't know what's been taken, so…"

Harry nodded in understanding and gave a smile. "I get it," she said, "My superhero little brother has got to go back and save the day." She gave a laugh but he could tell she was only trying to cheer him up and she followed it with, "I hope there's not too much damage been done John. You should really get yourself home." John sighed and stood up, concern and apprehension churning in his stomach as he did so. 221B Baker Street wasn't a stranger to having people simply break in, after all, their security was only as good as the latch on their door and, when Mrs Hudson was out, the alarm code for their system. Still, hearing that someone had been in their space, in their home, was unnerving and John felt like someone had already stolen something dear to him and he felt both angry and offended by it.

"Yeah, I should… go," John agreed, feeling awkward once again, his forced departure making the goodbye feel sudden and out of place, "Listen, it's been really great to see you Harry and you've been doing great so… I'm really proud of you. So, well, keep it up, okay? I really liked seeing you again."

"You'd see me more often if you weren't so stubborn," Harry pointed out but there was no real malice in the words and she stood. With the same brazen courage that made her as strong as she was, she was the first one to make the step and she didn't give John any notice before she pulled him into a hug.

"See you later," she said and John smiled, hoping that perhaps this time he would, perhaps this time she really was serious about staying off the drink. But with Harry, nothing was ever certain.

"Yeah, I'll er, I'll call you," John said.

"No you won't," Harry said dryly but she grinned nonetheless, "Go on, get going, sort that flat of your out. And don't forget to sort your flatmate out while you're at it!"

* * *

After a few more goodbyes and John attempting to try and get Harry to agree to at least consider a family dinner, John had made his way back to Baker Street. Even at his hurried state, it still took him almost an hour to get back and by the time he arrived, he already saw a police car sitting outside, looking like it had been sat there for a fair while. He remembered Mrs Hudson mentioning something about Lestrade coming over with Sherlock; presumably straight from the case they had just been on.

He entered the flat without knocking, spotting Mrs Hudson in her kitchen, making a cup of tea, like she always did when she was nervous. An unusual idiosyncrasy of Mrs Hudson's was that when she was agitated, she took to making cup after cup of tea, for whoever would agree to it and even to those who didn't. In the end, John and even to some extent Sherlock, had given in and now simply said yes to any offer of tea that arose.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called from the bottom of the stairs and Mrs Hudson jumped a little, quickly turning her head to see him, "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Are you all right? You weren't in the flat when they were, were you?"

"No, I was out at the shops but heavens John, it's just not right. These kids, breaking into people's houses like this; you'd never see this happening in my day. It's the parent these days, I'm-"

"Um, so, you're alright? Not hurt?" John jumped in, stopping the rant before it began. Often, Mrs Hudson could be worse for rambling than Sherlock could and although he did want to make sure she was alright, he was also desperate to see exactly what the damage to the flat had been.

"No, I'm fine, thank you John," Mrs Hudson said, "Sherlock's upstairs with Greg." With a quick thank you, John ascended the stairs as quickly as he could.

"Sherlock," he shouted as he did, "I heard about the flat, I came as quickly as I could. Is everything-" He stopped as the flat came into view, his mouth dropping open.

"Oh my God," he said, trying to absorb the mess that was once their living room.

Granted, the place had been cluttered when he had left that morning, still not having cleaned up the boxes scattered everywhere but now the place was not only mess but most of it was also ruined. Each and every box had been opened and overturned, anything breakable inside having smashed or broken on impact with the ground and scattering across the floor, now empty boxes strewn everywhere. He couldn't see too well from where he was standing but he could tell that the sofas had been slashed open, the stuffing removed in places like they had considered it to be a hiding place for something precious. The curtains were torn down, Sherlock's chemistry equipment having been turned into nothing but shards of glass on the floor, the coffee table overturned, TV looking like it had all but been removed from the wall and, most perturbingly, the window had been broken. Well, not broken fully and John's mouth fell open in shock as he looked closer at it to see the small round hole, surrounded by a maze of cracking, of a bullet.

His eyes widened and his eyes followed the invisible path of the bullet, swallowing as he spotted the hole in the wall where the shot had made a hole in the wall, powerful and clean and the more John looked at it and considered, the more it appeared to be-

"Sniper shot," he heard someone say and John jumped, looking over to the armchair where he could see Sherlock crouched on his haunches, looking more agitated than John had seen him in a long time. There was a fury in his eyes that John was taken aback by, a barely restrained angry at their home being violated.

"He wished to make his identity known, perhaps to try to scare us, perhaps to warn us of what happens when we attempt to look into his business," Sherlock said blandly and he looked over at John, almost nonchalant in his actions, as if checking to see if John had brought milk home or not, "This was done as a warning. A power play to attempt to scare us off, that much is obvious."

"Obvious?" John echoed and then, considering it, the thoughts coalesced and he felt himself go bug-eyed in surprise, "Wait, what, the sniper from the case? The guy that killed that couple?"

Sherlock looked at him again and this time his irritation was clear, looking at John as if he had said the most stupid thing he had ever heard and, according to Sherlock, he had heard a lot of stupid in his life.

"Of course the sniper from the case John, were you even listening at all?" Sherlock snapped.

"That's the question I constantly ask you Sherlock, funnily enough you never answer," John said back, sighing and returning his gaze to the flat to review the damage with a groan. The place looked worse than it had when Moriarty's bomb had exploded in the house across the road and John knew that getting it back to normal would be a long, arduous job.

"Nothing's been taken according to Sherlock so, it looks like he might be right." John looked over at the voice and saw Lestrade walking out of the kitchen, a notebook in his hands that he appeared to be writing down in. John nodded to him in acknowledgement, acting as calmly as he could, however inside, his stomach was roiling. Something about this was off, not just because the flat had been broken into (which would have alarmed him before he started living with Sherlock) but there was something else too, something John couldn't quite place. He simply had the feeling that there was something more to the incident than what they could see. He didn't know where the feeling came from or what it meant but still, it remained, like a shadow at the corner of his mind, a notion that he couldn't shake.

"You think someone's trying to scare us out of investigating?" John asked and Lestrade shrugged.

"I'm not sure. I'll have to look into it but Sherlock's pretty convinced," Lestrade said.

"It's obvious," John heard Sherlock growl and he cast a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock looked as irritated as he sounded and there was a hint of darkness to his eyes that unnerved John as he watched his flatmate scan the flat. He could almost hear every detail register in Sherlock's brain, the quiet anger of their space being invaded making him otherwise impossible to read. He could have been planning murder or planning what to write on his blog and John would not be able to tell the difference behind the settled, patient anger surrounding him.

John heard the knock on the door downstairs and jumped, his mind dragged forcefully away from his flatmate. Sherlock himself didn't so much as blink at the sound, lost deep in thought, blocking out the rest of world as he sometimes did when he needed to think. There could be an earthquake and it wouldn't break Sherlock out of his mood until he had whatever answer it was that he was looking for. John had tried everything, the first few times it had happened, to snap him out of it. However, eventually he came to realise that once Sherlock was in thought, it was very easy to lose him there.

"Oh for God's sake, who the hell's this?" Lestrade cried, "It's a crime scene, not a theme park!"

John smiled sympathetically. He could understand Lestrade's unease as even he himself didn't trust anyone being in the flat right at this moment, besides the small group that were already within the room. In fact, John realised that, overall, there were very few people that he trusted on a day to day basis, less perhaps than he could count on his fingers. Therefore, the idea of having someone in 221B right after a robbery set his teeth on edge and he waited in suspicion as he heard Mrs Hudson greet someone at the door and several pair of shoes ascend the stairs. He tensed, preparing for the worst scenario, his soldier's instincts kicking in and making his muscles coil into readiness. The only thing keeping him reasonably at ease was the fact that Sherlock was still sat, relatively relaxed where he was. Even when he was in his own world, Sherlock sensed trouble like a fire alarm to smoke and, despite usually having an active need to seek it out, John trusted him. Sherlock had landed them in more than their fair share of danger on many an occasion, yet John was more than happy to follow Sherlock's lead, gauging trouble by Sherlock's reactions.

A small group of people crested at the top of the stairs and John's eyes widened as he recognised the man in the front of the group.

"Jesus," the man cursed and John was forced to step aside as the older man barrelled into the room, "Sherlock! Are you alright? Jesus Christ, look at the state of this place. Was anything taken?"

John watched Robert Holmes' presence fill the room as he swept forward, a small handful of policeman, seemingly at a loss for what to do without their leader, paused awkwardly at the top of the stairs. Sherlock on the other hand seemed to jerk, like a puppet on a string and John's mouth was close to falling open as Sherlock came quickly from his thoughts, head spinning to fix on his father.

"I'm fine," the detective said immediately, "Simply working out the problem. If I'm not mistaken, which I'm not, this was a warning shot, so to speak. No real damage was intended." John raised an eyebrow at that. _No real damage? _He looked around the flat, seeing the broken window and shot-up wall, the destroyed furniture and scattered possessions and he felt his teeth clench together, hard. John knew that Sherlock enjoyed showing off, however this was something completely different. Around his father, Sherlock was more than a show-off, more than just brilliant, he was near on desperate, eager to please and to prove himself like John had never seen before.

"How the bloody hell did he find out about this?" a voice next to John said and the close proximity almost made him jump, turning his head to see that Lestrade had moved to stand next to him.

"Well, he is the superintendent, I don't reckon there's much he doesn't know about," John supplied, "And Sherlock is his son after all." Lestrade made a face, his displeasure obvious.

"The guy really doesn't sit well with you does he?" John said. In all honesty, although he couldn't pin it down to anything particular due to the man's regularly charming demeanour, he could not one hundred per cent say that he trusted the older man, however Lestrade seemed even more on edge than he was around Robert Holmes. "Wasn't he the guy that gave you the D.I job back?" John continued.

Reluctantly, Lestrade nodded and John followed his gaze, seeing Robert talking to Sherlock, discussing the crime, Sherlock making deductions faster than John had ever seen, as if all this time he had been holding back and was now working at his brain's usual, superhuman speed. John would be too embarrassed to say it but he had to admit that it wouldn't surprise John is Sherlock really _did _have superhuman powers sometimes, although he would never tell him that.

"Yeah, he did," Lestrade agreed, "I dunno, it's just… when Sherlock was gone, there was no support for him in the force, at all. No investigation, no nothing. And then Sherlock's dad just comes in out of the blue, starts a full scale investigation but never mentions it's his son? And now he's treating him like they've been together for years. Sherlock's not the same when he's around."

"You can say that again," John agreed.

"Today's crime scene for example. I've never seen Sherlock work so fast. It turned out to be a client of Moriarty's and not a single one of us picked up till Sherlock mentioned it, but it was like watching a puppy trying to fetch a slipper," Lestrade said quietly. John tried to imagine Sherlock as a puppy with a slipper and shuddered. Sherlock was anything but a people-pleaser and even just imagining him as one was unsettling, much less seeing him trying to impress anyone for any other reason than his usual narcissistic ways.

John's attention returned to Sherlock's father as the man spoke up, addressing his small team of officers who had gathered in a small huddle by the picture of the skull that was now hanging onto the wall for dear life, its frame shattered as if whoever had broken in had searched it for something.

"I want you to set up a watch around the flat, no-one gets in without being authorised," he commanded and John spluttered, Lestrade quickly thumping him on the back as he coughed a little in shock.

"Wait, what?" John exclaimed.

"There's no need for alarm Doctor Watson, I simply wish to place the correct precautions in place, should this man return again. You know very well that my son often places himself in danger for the sake of the case, a risk that I wish to minimize as best as I can, at least, for the time being. After all, this man has already killed two people," the eldest Holmes explained.

John gaped at him, looking between him and Sherlock, his expression only growing more shocked as he looked at Sherlock who appeared to be stuck in the middle of a crisis, his calm exterior cracking ever so slightly. It was only visible to John because he had seen it before, when having to give over a valuable piece of information in exchange for someone's life (which was often apparently a harder decision for Sherlock than John would like) or when trying to be nice to John's girlfriends for John's sake. He frowned, Sherlock's expression making his stomach drop as he realised that Sherlock was having to decide between the side of logic and his flatmate, against the idea of pleasing his father. John sent him a glance, half pleading, half stern scolding and Sherlock sagged a little, visibly caving under John's glare, the weight of years of what even Sherlock had dubbed as friendship pushed its weight on him.

"Father," Sherlock interjected and his voice was quiet and more subdued that either John or Lestrade was used to, Lestrade especially, who was used to hearing Sherlock commanding and yelling pompously on crime scenes, not bowing to a father he had not seen in years, "I understand our concern, however John and I have tackled much more perilous cases than this one and, although I understand the need for a thorough investigation, I believe that police time would perhaps be better spent elsewhere. It is not necessary to feel obligated to protect either John or myself." Sherlock's voice was still authoritative and steady, despite its volume, however his eyes didn't quite meet his father's as he spoke, and instead he seemed to try to avoid them, focusing on a point at Robert's lapel that apparently interested him.

Robert seemed to think for a while, scrutinising Sherlock's expression from above and the casting a half interested glance over at John.

"Understood," he said tightly and something about the tone sent a chill through John's skin and he wanted nothing more than to go and stand beside his flatmate, "However, as a compromise, I would very much appreciate it if you gave the Yard a chance to look over the flat. Take prints, photographs, see if we can dig anything up." Sherlock looked as if he was about to argue that whatever the Yard had to pick up, he had already picked up, however he stopped, seeming to decide that the moment wasn't quite right.

"Of course. John and I can go out for a few hours," Sherlock said. He turned to John, grabbing his scarf from where he had apparently hung it over an empty box and if John didn't know any better, he could have sworn it looked almost neatly smoothed, as if he had placed it with careful sentimentality despite the wreckage around him. John had also noted how Sherlock's coat had been placed on a hanger by the door for once when he had returned home instead of strewn across the sofa, as if he had purposefully kept it away from the carnage.

"There's a new Greek restaurant in Soho Square I'd like to try, as a matter of fact," Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around him.  
"Sherlock," John tried to interrupt but a raised eyebrow from Sherlock stopped him.

"I imagine you'll be finished by the time we return," Sherlock said. Robert Holmes nodded, the policemen in the corner already beginning to get out evidence bags and dust kits and John clenched his teeth at the idea of 221B Baker Street suddenly becoming a scene from CSI.

"We can put some things in order for you if you wish," Robert said, teeth flashing momentarily in a smile, "Return things to boxes, get rid of the broken glass. I hate to see your home looking like this Sherlock, I really do."

John saw Sherlock's eyes flash with something akin to the puppy dog Lestrade had described and John's clenched teeth grated together painfully.

"It's fine," John growled, "I'll do it when I get back. I've been meaning to clean the place up for ages now anyway." He tried to keep his voice jovial even though his teeth felt like they would crack any second now. The older man laughed, a sickly sweet sound that was almost like a giggle and John was reminded of when Mycroft feigned a laugh.

"You make an adorable house wife John," Robert grinned and John had to reign in his temper, "Don't worry, I'm not going to replace you. I only want to do what's best for Sherlock."

John glared at him and the stare he received back made his blood run cold, the danger and barely restrained violence behind it making him break eye contact in shock, a small shiver ran through him, like a drop of ice water creeping down his back. Sherlock was already halfway out the door, compelling John to follow him and John nodded in an absent minded way, thoughts focused on that stare.

"See you later John," Lestrade muttered and John felt momentarily sorry for him, knowing that he had to stay behind and receive his orders from the Superintendent.

"Yeah, see you Greg," John returned although his concentration was not on the D.I.

Even as they left the building and Sherlock began to tell John about the case of the morning, a series of missing millions streaming into bank account of a dead client of Moriarty's, or something to that effect, John couldn't stop thinking about that look, the cold, harsh gaze that promised cruelty. He suddenly regretted leaving their flat in the hands of a man like that.

* * *

_**A/N: Alright, so there was some really cheesy bits at the end and just as many clichés but I have written this out two and a half times XD  
Thinking about the ending, about leaving their flat to someone like that: Am I the only person who sees 221B Baker Street as an almost character of its own? I dunno, I see the flat as almost a character, like Serenity was in the TV show Firefly (If you've ever seen it), it has its own mood and feel and you can tell when bad things have happened there or when there are happy events there. I dunno, it just stands out to me as having an almost personified personality. Maybe I'm just crazy XD **_

_**Anyways, again, I am so, so sorry for the ridiculous posting, for once it truly was out of my hands D': Anyway, reviews are very, very much appreciated, everyone is welcome to PM me with ideas or even just to say hi and, again, thanks so much for reading! **_


	15. Know

_**A/N I'm a terrible person. There's a special place in Hell that had my name on it, like those posh parking spaces in hospitals. I have a parking space in Hell too o.O Honestly guys, I am so, so sorry for the recent posting awfulness I've been bestowing on you, I really do deserve all kinds of painful deaths D': My laptop is still playing up and due to the fact that I'm off on holiday this week, my work has punished me with about a million hours of shifts, leaving me no time to get into town and get it fixed, meaning I've had to do ridiculous things to write this up and post :'( And, to make matters worse, as I've just mentioned, I am off on holiday this week so my next update will be next Saturday and then I'm away for another week but then after that, posting WILL go back to normal as I'm putting my laptop in for fixing tomorrow before I go away so it'll be done for when I get back.**_

_**Which leads me to another apology: Sorry to all those reviews and wonderful people I have yet to reply to! D': I promise that I will reply very shortly, I'm just having to do it on my phone at the moment so it's positively a nightmare. However I want to say right now, THANK YOU SO MUCH! For being as wonderful and, as ever, patient as you are and for taking the time to review! To the people I can't PM:  
**__**Lailariel, you're too right :D You're actually spot on, I've been told so many times before that I'm a rambler and it is a huge problem for me but I am going to try and work on it, so I really honestly do thank you for your wonderful advice and constructive criticism, it honestly does help :) I'm always looking for tips on how to improve so thank you so much for the help and you obviously know what you're talking about as you've picked up on one of my many weaknesses there :)  
To Catwoman, thank you so much for the review! I'm really, really glad you like it and that you like my Sherlock, he can be a handful to write! Thanks for reading!**_

_**To Anonymous, I'm sorry D': I know, I'm becoming one of those awful late posters that hurt us so much D': Posts will be resuming some form of normality soon, sorry for your wait my dear! Feel free to throw some rotten fruit at me :D**_

_**Anyways, this has turned kinda long so I really should get started with the fic. This chapter took a completely different direction to what I had planned so to be honest, I'm very very worried about it, especially after my writing confidence has taken a bit of knock lately due to external factors, so please, all constructive criticism is very welcome!**_

_**Disclaimer: I have teamed up with my psychiatrist and we are planning a Mission: Impossible style plan to find our boy, complete with jet packs and ninja ropes! We bought the jetpacks on eBay and made the ninja ropes using human hair (from our backs) and are hitting the most desolate and epic locations in the world to **__**make us look cool**__** , I mean, to find Sherlock!**_

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The flat should have been dark when they returned. It was almost ten pm and although the police crew had been gone for a good few hours now, John and Sherlock had taken their time in returning, going for a walk before their meal and staying in the bar until it had started to get dark outside. Not that Sherlock was a keen drinker as, while he was apparently perfectly comfortable with having drugs addle his mind, drink was something he was less interested in, arguing that instead of aiding his thinking, it slowed him down and was therefore boring. John had rolled his eyes at that and ordered another drink for himself, determined to enjoy the night out. It wasn't as if he and Sherlock didn't go out often, being two men in a flat by themselves often meant that cooking was more dangerous than it was worth, however tonight was the first night that Sherlock had been back that John felt fully normal around him once again and he was determined to make the most of it.  
When they caught a cab back to the flat, night had already fallen and the sky was almost completely black, casting shadows over the street as they made their way into the flat. Mrs Hudson was still awake, the TV in her flat sending the shrill laugh of a talk show audience into the hallway, the sound muffled through the wall but still enough to let the boys know that they didn't have to creep up the stairs so as not to wake their landlady. Sherlock was very rarely discreet for anyone however John had noticed that, despite the fact that Sherlock tried to hide it, the detective would make much less noise when entering the flat if he knew that Mrs Hudson was asleep.

The pair ascended the stairs, John talking about the job interview he had put in for the other day after struggling with this month's payment for the flat. Mrs Hudson had been generous enough to give him a very small fee for the flat during Sherlock's absence but now that he was back, the rent being shared between the two of them, the price was its usual and John was falling behind without a job. As always, Sherlock was only half listening to what he was saying.

"They said I could go in on Friday, have an interview. They'd decide it over the weekend I think but from what I heard they really liked the experience I'd put down on my CV so-"

"John, do you see that?" Sherlock interrupted. John narrowed his eyes at his flatmate for cutting him off but he looked nonetheless to where Sherlock had gestured.

At first, John didn't quite know what Sherlock was talking about. He frowned, opening his mouth and turning to Sherlock to say so but, at the last moment, he noticed it. Quickly, he closed his mouth and looked back up the stairs to rest his eyes on the faint glow coming from their living room. It looked as if a light had been left on inside, perhaps the lamp as the glow was fainter and strangely warmer, suggesting that it was being blanketed by the lampshade slightly.

"So?" John asked, "They left the lamp on when they left, it's no big deal Sherlock." He continued walking up the stair but stopped when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, holding his back, not moving from the spot on the stairs in which he had apparently fixed himself. The detective's eyes did not move from where they were observing the glow from the room and when he spoke it was with the same deductive tone that he used on cases.

"Daylight would provide sufficient lighting to take prints and evidence from the room, especially as it only began to get dark two and a half hours ago, long after the police team would have left," Sherlock explained, "So why would anyone turn on a light unless they're in the dark?"

"Maybe they stayed and straightened the place out, like they said they might," John suggested, rolling his eyes, feeling already tired even though it wasn't especially late.

"They? Actually, only Father suggested that idea and unfortunately," Sherlock gave a small smile at this and it was a wry, cheeky smile that made John grin, "_somebody_ shot him down in flames even though we really could have used the help." Sherlock tried to look pointedly at John but the other man was grinning too much to take seriously.

"Whatever," John jibed, "So did you. Anyway, it's probably nothing Sherlock, really. They probably left it on for us and you're just-"

"An unused light was left on in Baker Street and Mrs Hudson didn't turn it off?" Sherlock cut in, "Mrs Hudson who used the ridiculously useless energy saving light bulbs she sees on TV adverts and recycles" John noticed how mockingly Sherlock said "recycles", like it was the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. Despite this, John felt a chill run through him as he considered Sherlock's words and a stab of concern for Mrs Hudson ran through him as his mind began to imagine what kind of person would be in their flat at this time of night.

"Wait, you think- you think that he's come back?" John dropped his voice to a low whisper part way through his question, worry now bubbling in his stomach. If the man was back, even with John's army training and Sherlock's skill at hand-to-hand, there wasn't much of a chance they'd win a fight with him, considering that the man was a marksman, and a good one by the look of his victims, and that John's gun was tucked away in his bedroom and not in plausible reach.

Sherlock didn't say anything, his face giving nothing away and John had a wait for a few tense moments before he said anything.

"I don't think-" he cut himself off, as if he was still thinking the thought through and hadn't quite reached a conclusion yet. John waited and a moment later, Sherlock's expression relaxed a little, making John's shoulders slump in relief and he let out the breath he had been holding, before Sherlock's eyes darkened and the lithe detective started climbing the stairs again, fury practically rolling from him as he passed John, fists clenched.

Swallowing back confusion and concern, John scampered to follow him

It was a fact. Simply a statement of fact, nothing more or less, like telling someone that the earth went around the sun. Any other person could not argue with that but, as John well knew, Sherlock Holmes was anything but an ordinary person. And if there was anything that John did know, it was that Sherlock was never one to simply sit back and accept facts. One of his friend's most annoying traits was his argumentative side and John felt like groaning at the challenging face he pulled at Mycroft.

"Stop _what, _Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled. Mycroft stepped forwards unhurriedly, making Sherlock tense up in anger, body coiled like a spring.

"Don't play dumb Sherlock; we both know that you're too smart for that. You know what I'm talking about," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Spell it out for me." The words were a challenge, a test at Mycroft's patience and John could see it visibly working. He wanted nothing more than to step in and stop what he could imagine being a very ugly argument but when it came to the Holmes brothers, it was very difficult to find the right words to prevent anything. It was like being a college student trying to break up an argument between Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton.

Mycroft ground his teeth and it was the first sign of any emotion that John had caught since he had entered the room.

"You'll have to excuse me for bringing Dr Watson into this Sherlock; this is, after all, between me and you. However, I am wondering if the doctor knows about these cases you've been taking on," Mycroft said, his voice betraying none of the annoyance that his movements did. Sherlock on the other hand appeared to be the epitome of irritation as he listened to his brother and John was concerned that Sherlock was going to cause himself injury if he clenched his fists any more than he already was doing.

"You know all about the cases Sherlock has been taking on, don't you doctor?" Mycroft asked. John didn't reply, knowing that Mycroft already knew the answer. So far, John had heard very little about the things Sherlock had been investigating, only hearing fleeting mentions of them here and there.

Mycroft apparently need an answer as he continued regardless. "They're all cases given to him by Robert Holmes," he explained, "All of them. Each one he had attended personally."

"Your point being?" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft took another step forward and now he was only a few paces away from where Sherlock was standing. John noticed that the elder man's signature umbrella was missing from the ensemble and the lack of it unsettled him. In a strange way it made Mycroft seem incomplete, like a limb had been removed from him.

"Sherlock, please try to understand," Mycroft said and this time, the tone had become a disturbing mimicry of pleading, so ill-fitting to Mycroft that the sound came out all wrong to John's ears, "Try to think past your own need for approval and _think. _Really think. Something isn't right here and through all of this… fighting for _his_ love, you know that, deep down. There are things that don't add up and you are missing them because of Robert's puppetry over you. He-"

"Stop it," Sherlock spat. His eyes were fixed on Mycroft, the heat of them burning into his brother's soul and the older Holmes struggled to hold the gaze, sealing his own off with ice to try and hold back the flurry of emotions he could see being barely restrained in his little brother's face. There was fury there and hurt but most of all, there was betrayal. Betrayal that only made emotions Mycroft had long since buried come out like a sickness in his stomach. Guilt. Sorrow. Pain. There was an accusation in Sherlock's gaze that hurt more than all of those feelings put together. _Father might never have been there for me. But neither was you. _

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, listen to me. The cases he's been giving you, his "sudden" appearance, it's all wrong. You can't see it because you're too busy scrambling for his attention," He tried to take a breath to calm himself but his voice was raising and he couldn't help the anger in it, "For God's sake, you're a child Sherlock! A goddamn child and you need to grow up and realise that things don't work like they used to! This _has _to stop, Sherlock. Robert Holmes is-"

"You can't even call him Father, can you Mycroft?" Sherlock said. John strained to hear him as his voice had dropped so low, however Mycroft seemed to hear him just fine as the older man looked as if he had been struck. "You're so angry with him; you won't even call him father. Well, Mycroft, you're not exactly whiter than white yourself and I still call you 'brother'"

"H- he doesn't deserve it," Mycroft said through gritted teeth. It was the first time John had ever heard Mycroft stutter and he suddenly felt his blood run cold with something akin to fear at the menacing step that Sherlock took, a dark mirror image of his brother's actions, bringing him so close to Mycroft that he thought he might really strike him.

"Of course," Sherlock growled and it was a confused mix of sarcasm and dry realism, "He doesn't, not according to my big brother, right Mycroft? Because you just _love _playing God. That's why you tell me not to call him father but it's perfectly alright to call you my big brother." Mycroft visibly swallowed and it was in that second, with Sherlock's face pressed only inches from Mycroft's own, that he knew. He knew what Sherlock was going to say next, he knew what Sherlock knew and there was nothing he could do about it. And the thought of that made him sick to the stomach.

"You don't deserve that, Mycroft. Do you know why? Do you ever wonder why I didn't go to you after I faked my death?" He let the question linger in the air, unanswered, like a plague hanging in the wind before death struck, "Because I know what you did Mycroft! I knew, from the moment I saw that article. There was only one person in the world who knew that information – you don't think I didn't know?" Sherlock made a scoffing sound, bitter and condescending. Mycroft saw John gaping from where he was stood behind Sherlock, mouth open in shock. He ignored him. All that mattered right now was Sherlock. Sherlock knew and that was all that was important.

"Sherlock," he began, "You must understand that the reasons why I told Moriarty the things I did were very important, it was a necessary evil Sherlock." He was about to continue, to force Sherlock to believe him. He had to believe him. If he didn't, then Mycroft didn't know how he was ever going to wipe those words from his memory. To wipe the expression on Sherlock's face from his mind, the suddenly blank, uncaring mask that feel over him as he said the words that Mycroft knew would haunt him forever. It was the same expression that had washed over Sherlock all those years ago, in that memory-haunted house when Mycroft had told him the thing he had regretted for years to come. He had taught his own brother to be less than human.

And what did that make him?

"I don't care," Sherlock said blankly and Mycroft blinked into silence, "I'm telling you so that you know. Not because it needs discussion. I don't care what you did, I do not hold grudges, Mycroft. I do not blame you." Mycroft tried to form words but today was a first for everything as he found himself speechless, thoughts tripping over themselves and stacking up in his mind as he tried to process what Sherlock had just said. _Was it forgiveness? _He knew Sherlock too well to truly believe himself forgiven and yet a part of him wished to believe it. A part of him just wanted to leave, right then and not have to question it or take it apart, simply to fool himself into believing that he had received absolution and never have to think otherwise. Except, he knew Sherlock. He knew that there was nothing between them that Sherlock had ever forgiven him for, or worse, forgotten.

"That's what our family does, isn't it Mycroft? It's just what we do. We lie and cheat and manipulate each other to our best advantage, all of us. We have all do it and we'll do it in the future," Sherlock said and it was John's turn to move forward this time. Mycroft saw him make a move to put a hand on Sherlock's arm, as if to move him away, but he stopped the gesture halfway and retracted his arm, looking away as he did, speechless.

"I understand it Mycroft. But I don't forgive it."

Mycroft's world stopped. His breath caught, his heartbeat seemed to stutter; the job, his position he had gained suddenly became nothing as he lost the boy he had looked after all his life. The person that he had made his position in the world revolve around, the difficult but comfortable locality around his brother that he had somehow clung on to shattered and, with it, it seemed as if the world had shifted, taking his place in the world with it. He had always known that Sherlock had never forgiven him for the things he had done but he had never heard the words. Now they were spoken, they drifted in the air, lost thoughts in a crowded brain. It was finally too much. Mycroft had pushed too far this time and he knew it, every fibre of him knew it. He had pushed too far and he had lost his brother, any and all link they once had had broken under the pressure.

"Sherlock-"

"Get out." There was nothing to the voice now, no anger or sadness, if anything there was even a mild disinterest as his brother broke eye contact with him and it was as if the last shred of his brother was pulled from him as the gaze tore away.

"I-"

"Get out," he repeated. Mycroft opened his mouth again but closed it, jaw clenching as he too looked away. His fingers grasped at the air by his side and he realised only after he had done so that he had been grasping for his umbrella, only to find that it was not there. He had left it behind, in the car, knowing that seeing him without it, Sherlock would instantly know what Mycroft had intended to do by coming here. Mycroft had left it behind because he knew that, some way or another, tonight was going to be another addition to the list of wounds Mycroft had inflicted already on his brother. If only he had known how deep this one would cut, he would never have left it behind.

"I said that I understood it. Now get out," Sherlock reiterated. Mycroft took a second to gather himself before he straightened, looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

"You say that it's what the Holmes family does," Mycroft said, pausing for a moment, "But I know for a fact that you, Sherlock, would not have done what I did." He wanted to say more, to tell him he was sorry or that he was proud of him or to say goodbye because he never wanted to face that broken moment of pain in Sherlock's eyes ever again, but he didn't. He was a Holmes. It was what they did.

He flickered his gaze away and without saying anything more, he moved past him, stopping momentarily at the coffee table to retrieve the file he had left there upon entry. He stared at it for a moment, regarding it with a hopeless longing before he turned his attention to John.

"For when he's feeling more…" he tried to think of the word, "When he's ready. Take a look over them yourself, John. They might prove useful. He might listen to you." He handed the files to John and he looked ready to protest but Mycroft didn't give him the chance, instead he ignored both him and the silent, immobile figure of his brother and marched out of the room, the sound of his shoes on the stairs sounding hollow and loud in the silence.

Several moments passed in silence as neither of the men remaining spoke. John watched Sherlock carefully, waiting for a movement or words but there was none, as if he was frozen to the spot.

"Sherlock," John said finally, "I don't – I don't mean to take sides but… I think Mycroft could be right. I mean, I'm not sure, but maybe you could possibly entertain the idea that your dad might not be all you-"

Sherlock spun round so fast that it made John jump and the shock caused his words to cut off sharply. The look he gave him, however, was enough to keep them from returning. _Not you too John. Please, not you too. _

John nodded, sighing.

"Alright," he said, "I get it. Alright." Sherlock gave a jerky nod and eyed the files in John's hand but said nothing.

"You need to go," Sherlock said suddenly. John's eyes widened.

"Wait, what?"

"Go. Leave. Get out," Sherlock said and for a second John was off balanced until he caught onto Sherlock's tone. It was close to that which he used when he was trying to figure out a case and needed John's thoughts to not be in the room because they were too noisy for Sherlock to think. There was something else in the tone too but John didn't question it, not after the look of betrayal and hurt Sherlock had already given him. He would question him on it later, but not right now. Right now that was not what Sherlock needed.

He nodded, subconsciously holding the files closer to himself as he decided that despite how much he disliked Mycroft for what he done to Sherlock, he was right about Robert Holmes. And even if Sherlock wouldn't see it, John was determined to find out what it was, starting now.

"Okay," John said slowly, "I'll um, I'll just… go upstairs then, shall I?" Sherlock nodded and waved a hand irritably, apparently now bored of the conversation and he watched as the detective flopped down on the sofa, brow furrowed in concentration. John didn't say anything else, leaving silently, clutching the files as he took one last look into the darkened living area and, with a sigh, made his way to his room.

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_**A/N Okay, I know D': It's not worth the wait, you can say it D': There was a bit I really liked that I wanted to add onto the end but it didn't quite fit so I had to remove it and that hasn't helped my cause at all :S I'm hoping it's just my paranoia and not my actual writing that's making me worry but nonetheless, all criticism and/or reviews are not only welcomed, but much loved and appreciated and they made me cry with joy and love! :D So please feel free to say hello and, once again, sorry again and, as ever, thank you so much for reading! See you soon!**_


	16. Broke

_**A/N Hurrah, I'm actually on time for once! I'm posting today due to the fact that I'm off on another week long holiday tomorrow so won't be able to make Monday post but it'll be a Monday post still next week X) It's so good to be back and on schedule! :') **_

_**To both Guest and lolello, thanks very much for your kind words and reviews, I really do appreciate them but obviously I can't respond via personal message and so I have to tell you here :) Thanks for reading! Also, as ever, a HUGE thank you to all the patient, wonderful, intelligent, perfect reviewers and subscribers out there that have been reading, thank you so, so much :) **_

_**The only warning for this chapter is that there are a few very OOC bits in my opinion however they're kinda reasoned for. Oh and, lucky you guys, lol, 'cos I had good fun with this chapter as it's a FLASHBACK! Woo! Sorry, I like flashbacks, a lot XD It's a very Sherlock and Mycroft centric chapter with university!Sherlock, so lots and lots of fun for me XD Anyways, I'll stop jabbering and let you guys alone before I talk you to death XD Thanks once again for reading! **_

_**Disclaimer: The plan is this: Using a jet pack, my psychiatrist is going to fly up to the plane I'm going on my holiday to and use the human back hair to strap herself to the underbelly. Then, using super strength Best Buy binoculars, she will search for Sherlock from the skies! IT IS GENIUS AND, BETTER STILL, FOOLPROOF! This is gonna work out just fine :) I'll tell y'all when we've found him! **_

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The rain hit hard at the window of the university dormitory, streaking the glass with droplets as it pounded onto the street below. Cars splashed into puddles on the road outside, the street being otherwise deserted as the pedestrians had long since run to find safe shelter from the storm brewing in the air. Thunder was hanging like an ominous threat yet to sound and the grey London sky cast a murky mist over the city as it settled in for the afternoon, bringing the sheets of rain and the cold, frigid air with it.

Mycroft hurried the short distance from his chauffeured car to the building's door, buzzing the electronic bell while huddling into his jacket, wishing that he had brought a coat or, at the very least, got his assistant to buy an umbrella for him. There was a slight cover from the rain in the doorway and Mycroft stayed close it as he rang the bell a second time, looking distastefully at the cluttered windows of the bottom floor dorms, taking in the stacks of beer cans and less savoury symbols of university life that shuttered out the outside world.  
He was about to ring a third time when he heard the intercom stutter for a moment, as if pressed on once but then immediately turned off and then he heard another bleep as the door unlocked. Frowning, he pushed open the door quickly, brushing the water from his suit as he stepped into the tiny lobby area, the worry that was already clawing in his stomach multiplying ten-fold. He noted the dilapidated letter boxes and the frankly dangerous appearing lift in the corner of the room. Wrinkling his nose as the clinical, ever so slightly alcoholic smell emanating from the hall of downstairs dorms to his left, he decided to take the stairs. He'd much rather climb two flights of stairs than take his chances with the lift.

He contemplated his surroundings as he climbed the stairs. He had not felt as uncomfortable as this in years, the last time he remembered being so was during his first meeting in his new position in the government. Even for Mycroft, sitting in with the Prime Minister, a few cabinet officials, the head of the CIA and the FBI and the American President was a little overwhelming, especially given his young age.

Right now however he felt uncomfortable for a different reason. This place reminded him chillingly of home, the damp stairwell and the clinical smell of too much cleaning product and the tasteless choice in wallpaper all resonated painfully somewhere in his stomach and he remembered that Sherlock lived here permanently. He pushed down the feelings of guilt swarming in his stomach and it felt like a swarm of angry bees fighting to get out and he gripped the handrail extra hard. _There was no money; _he reminded himself quickly, _not enough for university _and_ good housing. _However, had it only been the guilt and the sharp, stinging pang of familiarity, Mycroft could have coped, could have satisfied himself with burying the feelings somewhere deep down and pretended that this was just a routine visit, a quick hello between brothers and nothing more but Mycroft wasn't even sure that he had enough imagination to muster even that. He hadn't done a "routine visit" to Sherlock since helping him to move in here, much less a friendly check-in or a polite stop-off.

Things had changed after that day when Father left. Mycroft knew it, Sherlock knew it and yet neither of them had wanted to say it out loud. Sherlock had shrunk into himself even more, calling Mycroft when he needed him, growing clingy and frightened when he grew sick or had to be alone with a mother that had now changed for the worse and yet, that was all it seemed to stretch to. Sherlock knew he could depend on his brother, knew he could look after him and keep him safe and that felt good for Mycroft to know that, but other than that, there was something missing. There was a detachment that grew only larger through every passing year until now they were in separate lives completely, only ever happening upon the other's existence when a Christmas card appeared in the mail or one of them popped up as an achievement in a newspaper. Sherlock knew his brother would look after him and protect him but, no matter how hard Mycroft tried, it didn't mean that he had to trust him.

It was only now that Mycroft was forced to encroach on Sherlock because he had to. It had been almost two weeks before Mycroft found out that Sherlock was missing, his changing role in the government meant that time to keep an eye on his brother had become few and far between and Mycroft had only discovered that Sherlock had gone missing when a Professor in one of his classes noticed how long he was gone and called the building, only to discover that Sherlock hadn't been seen in ages. By the time Mycroft found out about it, Sherlock had returned and that thought made Mycroft's stomach churn. Sherlock could have been dead for two weeks and he wouldn't have known about it until the police called to tell him so. _Where the hell was he?_ Mycroft thought sharply. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to wander off, even from being a small child, however it was worrying to hear that Sherlock had not turned up for classes as, despite how much Sherlock complained about them being dull and unintelligent, Sherlock had never missed a single one.

Mycroft reached the second floor with worry stirring like acid in his stomach. He took a moment to compose himself, silently scolding his worry when he was supposed to be here to find out where the hell Sherlock had been, what on earth he thought he was doing missing classes and not even telling anyone where he was. The anger however seemed to quail at the imagined scenarios in Mycroft's mind if Sherlock had not returned and he could only feel a mild sense of relief and ever present concern as he stopped at the first door on the hallway. Swallowing tightly, feeling like he was literally swallowing his pride, he knocked on the door, gently at first before becoming louder as he remembered that he was the older brother. He wasn't timid and he certainly wasn't scared.

There was the sound of fumbling from within the room and Mycroft thought he heard something heavy being knocked over, followed by a quiet curse. When the door finally opened, Mycroft had to hold back a gasp.

Sherlock looked deathly, his skin pale and clammy like he had the flu and there was a glassy tinge to his eyes that made them seem unfocused, the colour blurry like they were hidden behind a murky lens. His clothes were dry but they were rumpled in the irreparable way that happened when one stood in the rain for too long and the dimples of water become semi-permanent. Mycroft looked him up and down from the dishevelled, miserable looking hair to the bare feet and he grimaced, the sharp contrast to his own perfect suit and tie making the feelings of guilt crawl back up again, along with the blasted concern that never seemed to die when it came to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Mycroft managed to breathe, "What on earth-"

"Don't start," Sherlock grumbled instantly, turning to head back into the flat and Mycroft was pleased to see that at least he left the door open enough to allow him to follow him in. He didn't know if that was through choice or because his younger brother knew that he would only persist until Sherlock let him in.

The dorm was in a similar state to Sherlock himself, tousled and unkempt, the mess expanding across the floor and onto the tables and chairs in the room. There were a mass of books, papers, experiments and files tossed around the room and although it didn't smell particularly unhealthy, Mycroft could taste the dust in the air from the weeks being spent unlived in. Sherlock apparently didn't seem to mind the mess as he picked his way across the room, hoisting himself up onto a chair and sitting on the top of its back, feet touching the seat as he swiped up a file from the little table next to it and began to flick through it nonchalantly.

"The mess isn't my fault," Sherlock said blandly and it almost made Mycroft smile, if he hadn't been so shocked, as it sounded like Sherlock as a child, petulantly insisting that he didn't need to clean his room, "I'm on a case. It's a difficult one, requiring much research and thought which means that you should leave and give me space to solve it."

The suggestion made the previously missing anger in Mycroft flare and he glanced around the room once again, allowing the cluttered space to press in on him.

"Where have you been, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, ignoring his brother's request. Sherlock scowled at him from over the file, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said, his voice too quiet not to arouse any suspicion. Mycroft felt his heart catch for a second as the word stilled the atmosphere in the room. There was something wrong. Mycroft didn't know exactly what but he could sense it, the feeling of dread that crept into him at his brother's muted tone.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft pressed cautiously. He had been worried when Sherlock had disappeared but until now he had put it down to Sherlock just being Sherlock, going on a case or heading off abroad without telling anyone but now there was a heavy feeling in his stomach that it was more than that.

"Go away Mycroft." Mycroft took a step forward, careful not to tread upon anything as he did so.

"Where have you been?" Mycroft asked again and Sherlock's glare intensified, warning him to stop, dark eyes forcing him back. The look infuriated him and he took another step, then another, Sherlock's glower only urging him on. "Sherlock!" Mycroft snarled, voice rising as he advanced forwards, "Where the hell have you been? For God's sake, why won't you just talk to-"

He stopped, feet stuttering to a halt that almost unbalanced him.

"Sherlock, what-" Sherlock made a point of averting his gaze then, back to the case file with practice nonchalance as Mycroft stood stock still, staring at the item on the little side table that had come into his view. He wouldn't have noticed it at all had it not been haphazardly placed where what little light from the outside could hit it. The grey London light glinted off it and caught his eye, the misty, depressed chill outside being reflected in the glass and metal of the syringe.

"You told me you'd stopped that," Mycroft said. His tone was nothing more than flat and right then in that moment, he didn't care anymore. He felt spent. He had done so much and yet, no matter what he did, nothing made a difference. Sherlock would never trust him again, he knew that. _I don't need you to trust me, _Mycroft thought, looking up from the cocaine needle to look at Sherlock, _I won't try to make me trust you anymore but I won't let you destroy yourself. _He knew that what needed to be done for Sherlock's sake was not what was best for them both, he knew that it would always be a rift between them, but in the long run, it would be better for Sherlock.

"Well, I haven't," Sherlock said and it honestly sounded so indifferent, so uncaring to Mycroft that he couldn't help but stare, aghast at his brother. He didn't say anything for a long while, wading through his muddled thoughts and trying to think and when he finally did speak, it was subdued and empty.

"I can't do this anymore Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, "I can't keep ignoring these things, I can't keep trying to look after you by myself. If you just had someone else then-"

"I don't need anyone else," Sherlock interrupted.

"But you do Sherlock!" Mycroft cried, "If not for yourself then for me, because I can't carry on trying to be your brother and being your… your protector or whatever I've been all this time, I can't do it!" He gave a bitter laugh and he realised that this was probably what it felt like to jump to your death, the giddy, stomach churning feeling, knowing that you can take no more and whatever the outcome from it would be, it would be messy and painful.

"I can't do them both when one conflicts with the other Sherlock, you're not giving me a choice! For heaven's sake, you said you'd stopped!" He knew that he must sound half delirious by now, nothing but the pain of 21 years of desperate care and protection was crashing down on him like a wave, pummelling him into submission. Sherlock glanced over at him, infuriatingly calm, for a moment both physically and mentally higher than his brother, looking down on him.

"I stopped when the work did. And now the work is back," Sherlock said smoothly and Mycroft threw his arms in the air, an angry noise escaping the back of his throat like it was ripped out of him.

"You stopped when-" he cut himself off and gave another laugh, unnatural sounding and wrong even to him, "I can't do what's right for you Sherlock when I'm trying to your brother or even trying to be something close to a friend, I can't. You need help and I- I can't get you it unless I stop trying to placate you all the time, to make you trust me – God damn it Sherlock, look at me when I'm talking to you!"

The last words were almost a scream and still Sherlock gave no response, looking as spent as Mycroft felt, weariness sweeping across his features in a swift show of hopelessness. Mycroft gave an angry shrug then twisted his face into a bitter, pain filled smile that Sherlock had never seen before and something about it made his stomach twist. _He wants you to give it up, _Sherlock thought desperately to himself, _don't do it, don't give in. He'll go away if you don't give in. _He couldn't give up. Not now, when he had a case. Not now that he was finally on the precipice of being anywhere near accepted by the Scotland Yard Detective he had begun to aid on a regular basis. He couldn't risk losing it.

"That's where you were these past two weeks, wasn't it?" Mycroft said, voice lowered once again, "You were using cocaine for two solid weeks, you went out looking for, for _killers _while you were goddamn stoned! You think it makes you smarter don't you?" He paused, waiting to see anything but cold distance in Sherlock's eyes and when he saw none, he sighed. "I can't watch you self-destruct like this Sherlock," he said softly. He saw Sherlock stiffen a little when he pulled out his phone from his pocket and there was a second of fear that flashed in Sherlock's face that almost made Mycroft relent, until he steeled himself. _This is what he needs. _

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked quickly. Mycroft didn't answer.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what are you doing? Wait, Mycroft-"

The fear was definitely there, now in his voice and Mycroft couldn't keep silent as the desperate, utterly terrified words hit his ears and he swore to God that his eyes didn't sting with sharp, hot tears that he was forced to push down.

"I won't stand by and watch it," Mycroft said, almost more to himself than brother, who had now risen from the chair, standing cautiously and looking at him intently, "You need to be stopped. By whatever means I have at my disposal." He dialled the number and Sherlock watched with horror filled agitation as Mycroft began to speak.

"I have some… information regarding illegal substances that I wish to report. It's a matter only for-"

Sherlock couldn't breathe as he heard Mycroft speaking, realising instantly what he was doing, who he was talking to and yet, he couldn't will himself to move, to stop him, couldn't think of how to escape the sudden nightmare that was facing him. As Mycroft hung up the phone, Sherlock felt the numbness swarm over his entire body, sticking in his throat and making it hard to breathe. Mycroft sighed, silently putting away his phone before looking Sherlock dead in the eyes.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," Mycroft said and he forced himself to sound aloof, forced himself to keep talking as if this was a meeting with the Prime Minister and he was simply delivering facts "There will be a car to pick you up soon… I've passed it along to someone you can… trust, so… jail time, if any will be very minimal." He wanted to say something else, something to take back what he had done, anything to wipe the betrayed look from Sherlock's face.

"You called the police," Sherlock finally choked out. Mycroft nodded, jaw clenched tight.

"I specifically called your friend at the Yard… Lestrade is his name, isn't it?" Mycroft said, his voice sounding cold and distant to himself.

"He's not my friend," Sherlock snapped suddenly, fists clenching as he pushed his chin up defiantly.

"Nonetheless, he'll be… dealing with this. It will be discreet, he's sending a car to pick you up as we speak and-" Mycroft cut off at the look on Sherlock's face, the desolate, forlorn stare that cut to his very soul, like his entire world had simply faded with that phone call. He had tried so hard, worked so long to get here, to be accepted, to almost be known as Sherlock Holmes, detective. And now it had all been wiped away. Lestrade wouldn't trust him after this. It was all gone.

For the longest time, Mycroft wished that he could take the phone call back, to simply take the syringe with him as he went and try to ignore the next time Sherlock was caught under influence or to ignore it when Sherlock went missing for days and returned, glassy eyed and sickly. _I can't do this anymore._

"I'm so sorry Sherlock," Mycroft said tonelessly and he bowed his head, not wanting to look at the horrified expression on Sherlock's face. He waited a few moments to see if Sherlock would say anything and when he didn't, Mycroft nodded and began to leave, not saying another word.

"Mycroft." Mycroft turned around, almost at the door, looking back at his brother as the younger man stood, having lost it all, across from him. He seemed to consider the silence in the room after his word before he managed to speak again.

"It- it's still raining outside. There's an umbrella by the door."

The younger man turned instantly, walking, back straight and head as high as he could hold it in passive defiance, to look silently out of the window. Mycroft didn't tear his eyes from him for a few seconds, replaying the words in his mind, trying to ignore the small stutter in them for the sake of Sherlock's pride. To anyone else it would have sounded like an innocent, if out of place, sentence but to Mycroft it was something entirely different. He knew what this meant. It wasn't so much of a goodbye, but it was close enough that it made Mycroft's heart feel like it was being pulled at and stretched and the stinging in his eyes returned as the world blurred momentarily before he blinked them away. This was Sherlock's way of showing he understood. He understood that Mycroft would always be there to look after him, would always care, but the rest of it was gone. The trust, the times spent playing and talking as children, the Christmas cards and the looks to each other that only a Holmes could understand; it was all gone, left with only a cold expanse and colder silences between them. Talks would become jibes, playing would become arguing, looks would become glares and there was nothing left to fill the void between.

This was Sherlock's way of acknowledging the days now gone, lost in childhood. His one last, final effort for a thank you, for old time's sake. The words were a symbol, it was an act of protection that Sherlock could give to his brother, inverting their relationship in a way that scared Mycroft, like he was looking into a black hole and had no idea what was in it. It was a symbol of thanks, for what Mycroft had done for him all those years. Sherlock was bringing it full circle, protecting his protector, even in such a small manner. Completing the circle in order to close it, maybe forever.

Swallowing hard, Mycroft took the few paces to the door and stared at the umbrella leaning there, a full sized black item with a metal point at the end and it was undoubtedly something Sherlock had picked up on a case as it was nowhere close to his style. Mycroft looked at it for a few seconds before reaching for it, closing his hand around the handle. He breathed a sigh, looking back one last time at his younger brother before he turned and left the dorm.

He would never let anything hurt his little brother, not even now. But he was done with expecting more. He was done believing that Sherlock would ever chose him over his own pride, over the image of his father that he had created that still seemed to stay at the forefront of his mind, like a ghost haunting an old house. Mycroft considered creating the means to watch over him while not having to intrude on his life any longer as he looked out onto the grey London street from the doorway and watched as the black car pulled sleekly up onto the curb, splashing water onto the pavement. He didn't look back as he opened his umbrella and walked out of the life of Sherlock Holmes, not knowing if he would ever return.

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_**A/N I hope that this chapter made sense :S I was trying to show that their relationship broke down in stages, that first Mycroft lost Sherlock's trust, then he lost the ability to ask for his trust and could only protect him from afar and then, finally, in the Moriarty incident, he was unable to even protect him, leaving them both with nothing. God my writing can be terrible sometimes, I apologise dear readers for the mess I am making of this story D':**_ _**I also hated that last paragraph so much but didn't know how to change it :'( I'm so sorry for my uselessness!  
However, the characters did some interesting things I wasn't expecting this chapter so it was at least very fun to write! All reviews are most welcome and much, much loved and I will reply to each and every one of them after my holiday X) Thank you so much once again for reading and I'll see you all soon! Byeeee! XD**_


	17. Tea

**_A/N. _**

**_I'm going to a very dark pit in Hell. The furthest ring of Fanfic Hell, and that's a pretty deep ring because I have not updated in SO LONG! I AM SO SORRY! PLEASE FORGIVE ME AND ONLY THROW RELATIVELY SOFT OBJECTS AT MY FACE *Gets hit with a brick* "OW!" _**

**_o.O Seriously though, you have my sincerest, most heartfelt apologies because this is almost 2 WHOLE MONTHS late! I suddenly just had life hit me in the face like a wet fish: I got appendicitis and had to go to hospital, then flu, then I moved up to my new college, then mock exams, then a million shifts at work because people have left and now, finally, I have actually published this chapter! So, really, I am so sorry :'( _**

**_I am also sorry because this chapter was split into 3 bits across computers and notebooks and so gah, it is so integral and yet makes no sense and my writing is so dreadful and I'm just so very sorry! Whatever people I have left reading this will probably be saying adios to me after this terrible offering but please, before you go, let me say, I LOVE YOU ALL! _**

**_Which brings me onto my final point: Thank you to everyone that stuck with me during my long absence. Seriously, you mean everything to me, all of you. _**

**_To Anonymous, Lolello, Guest and Klester1987d, thanks so much for your ever-wonderful support, kind words and encouragement (next time I stop posting, throw a toaster at me :D) To_****_Lailariel, Um… here it is… I'm so sorry, please forgive me D': But also, thank you so much for the review, I really did love writing that chapter XD Hollowgirl, my loyal and amazing reviewer, to you I say sorry also and thank you for such kind praise :') You're just so lovely :') Dark Horse 13, sorry my update is so late, I'm a loser I know XD I was so happy to hear you'd read Never the Twain too, that made me smile XD Agh, uum…. I dunno how to respond to the question about why I'm hard on myself with my writing… it's the only thing I get really nervous about, pretty much everything in my life, I'm confident about but it's weird, the one thing I love the most is the one thing I'm most nervous about! I'm just never darn good enough!  
_**

**_And Cainchan, my dearest dearest reviewer and friend, to you I send my biggest apologies because I suck :/_**

**_One final note on the chapter: NEW CHARACTER TIME! YAY! And I liiikes him XD Two: Careful guys, I tried not to, but it fitted best, there is one, maybe 2 swear words in here. Sorry! :S_**

**_Anyhows, I'm not missing! I'm back! XD _**

**_Disclaimer: Oh. The human hair burnt when the jet pack took off and… sadly my psychiatrist fell 12 feet into a hole full of flying monkeys. Which I totally didn't place there because she was trying to commit me. … You have no evidence. _**

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"Is there anything that I can get you my lovely?" The waitress smiled. Robert Holmes watched his companion closely, all the while trying to keep his expression passive. The waitress was blissfully unaware of who she was addressing, oblivious to the blood on his hands which, unfortunately, was something that Robert was all too aware of.

"Ah, no thank you my dear. However, I will buy a tea for my friend here, if you would be so kind as to make one for him. Milk but no sugar, isn't it Robert?" the man across from him said and Robert nodded jerkily.

The other man's tone was surprisingly light and misleadingly quiet, the very pinnacle of politeness as he spoke again. "That'll be all," he continued.

The waitress smiled at him, nodding and scuttling away with a stupefied grin at the handsome man who had been so charming. Robert shuddered. If only she knew.

"So then, Robert, how are you? Everything going well on your end of things?" the man said. Robert relaxed a little; sinking back in his chair and reminding himself that he was the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard. His back straightened a little.

"Things have been going well. Sherlock's-"

"Oh, now now Robert, really?" The interjection sliced across Robert's words like a knife through butter, "No small talk? We are in a café after all, isn't there social conventions about small talk in places like this? It's not all business you know." The man grinned and Robert's eyes flicked around his face, taking in each movement of his expression.

The smile of Sebastian Moran was something of a disturbed sight. Not that this was the first time Robert Holmes had noticed the cracked, chapped lips that could easily have come from smiling at too many deaths or the curve of the mouth that promised pain in the most exquisite way, but when directed immediately towards him it was made everything ten times worse. Sebastian's eyes always held a cold regard to them, always, until he smiled and then they became like the light of a forest fire, untameable, crazed and hungry past all believing. Robert tried to avoid looking at them too long, trying to make it appear purposeful, forcing on a cool air of ignorance but all the while he couldn't stop remembering the first time he had seen that insane smile.

Moriarty hadn't been the super-star of a villain he had eventually become when Robert Holmes had met him. It was long before the days of his infamous game, long before the fame and the queues of clients in his inbox and the money rolling casually into his bank account from across the globe. It was actually through a police informant that Robert had found out about him. _This guy can help, _he had thought. Now, sat in this café with Moriarty dead and his lunatic companion across the table from him, Robert almost laughed at the irony, his own naivety making him feel sick with himself. He had been in too much trouble to ever think he could be helped and bad only ever led to worse.

"Word on the grapevine tells me you're in trouble with a few big fishies," Moriarty had drawled at him when he had finally caught up with him. It had been a rainy day on the Thames bank and Moriarty's apartment was a tiny thing, tucked away in the wrong part of the city with every intention of attracting the wrong sort of people.

"The gang daddies apparently aren't a fan of yours," he'd snickered. It had taken Robert everything not to arrest him then and there. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that, unfortunately, Moriarty was right. It wasn't exactly difficult to be a dirty police inspector these days, not in London. Certainly not when you'd already done over 20 years of the same, thankless job and was high up enough that nobody asked you any questions. That didn't stop him from making mistakes in the criminal world; it was different in real life than on paper and he'd found out the hard way. It was not as clean as the case files made it seem, the chaotic, frantic scramble of each petty criminal and the boot of the gang boss that could squash them at any moment made for an anthill of biting, scurrying insects that backstabbed and fought for dominance from their holes in the ground.

"You owe them, how much? Several million? Tut tut tut Mr Holmes, you should know that drugs kill. But this is fun, isn't it? We can let the bosses tear you apart and see which one gets to keep your head," Moriarty had continued with a child-like laugh.

"What do I need to do to get the money?" Robert cut in, trying to ignore the taunts and keep it to business. In all honesty, working for Moriarty hadn't been so bad. If anything, he actually rather enjoyed it, Moriarty was the type of guy that Robert could get used to, minus the insanity. He was _smart. _And if nothing, Robert could appreciate smart. It was perhaps for this reason that his first meeting with Moran had stuck in his memory so much. There was always the spark of whatever Moriarty had that was in Moran too but it was twisted, warped into something almost unrecognisable and all the more terrifying for it.

"He squealed like a pig when I got to his insides. Wet himself and everything; it was pathetic." The first words Robert had ever heard Moran say were the ones that Robert remembered more than anything else he had ever heard. Moran had only been introduced to him a few years ago; having always been the mysterious cohort of Moriarty's that Robert had never been introduced to, the man that Moriarty kept behind the curtain for "special occasions". When they had first met, Moran had been laughing with two other men, presumably friends, or as close to friends as a man like him could have, about someone that Moran had killed. Robert hadn't listened much, the gloating making him feel sick as the sniper went into vivid detail of his kill. All he caught was that the dead man's name was Teres, or something like that, and he had built bomb vests for Moriarty to use at a pool but after that, all Robert caught of the story was gore and laughter. Apparently Moriarty had run out of uses for the bomb tech and called Moran to finish him off.

Right now however, Moran's smile was an attempt at charming, like an insane clown trying to smile at a frightened child.

"How's Sherlock? You must be happy to see him once again," Moran said. Robert narrowed his eyes.

"That's none of your business. Sherlock's part of the plan, not part of your life. How he is isn't your concern," Robert snapped. Moran raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" Moran's face twisted into the crinkled grin of a hunting fox. "He did," he sneered, "After all, murder a business associate of mine. I think it is the business of both you and I to remember that. As an officer of the law, it's your duty to bring that infarction to justice, isn't it Robert?"

Robert wanted to point out that it had been Moriarty, not Sherlock, that had pulled the trigger, but he decided at the last moment that it wasn't of immediate consequence to him whether Moran kept his deranged little fantasy or not as, for the majority, working with Moran was easier than working with Moriarty and he wanted to keep it that way. With Moran there were never any sudden changes of plan, no complex games or whimsical plots; Moran's criminality was beautiful in its simplicity. Moriarty had spun the web and Moran was his perfect successor, untangling the intricate pattern and planning out the next steps in a stark, contrasting and almost mathematically precision. His mind was the math to Moriarty's poetry.

Working with Moran was quieter too. The constant edge of unsettling and obvious insanity was still constant but it was at least silent; soft spoken words always belying the violence in them. _A true hunter, _Robert thought. He could appreciate that.

"However," Moran pondered aloud, "I suppose that family isn't a subject you excel in. There's not many people like that anymore, is there? Family men? I blame all this Capitalism. No-one's interested in the community anymore, are they?" Robert raised an eyebrow at that as he sat back in his chair. It felt like a game. A game of Russian roulette with all the danger laced into the words and the stakes equally as high and right here, in this busy café, Robert felt completely and utterly alive as he took his turn.

"That seems a little contradictory doesn't it? It is coming from someone who steals from others for a living," Robert retorted. Moran's expression didn't change for a second and then he finally cocked his mouth into an almost handsome smile.

"Marx once said Capitalism has to fall for mankind to reach Utopia. I'm just a soldier, doing my duty to speed up the trip. Isn't that how we create revolution? With the individuals making a stand?" Robert didn't miss a step.

"And quite the stand you're making too."

Moran's face cracked into a fully-fledged grin. "See? That's how we do business Robert! Small talk can take a man a long way in negotiation."

"I wasn't aware that we had something to negotiate." Robert said. Whatever Moran wanted to discuss wasn't a good thing. They were silent for a while, remaining so as the waitress came back and set down the tea, Moran noticeably tipping her before she left. They both watched in silent contemplation as she walked away.

"So," Moran said finally, "How is everything progressing at your end?" The Superintendent's eyes didn't move from where he'd watched the waitress walk away as he spoke, voice low. "Sherlock hasn't suspected so far, if that's what you mean. He's taken every case I've given him and he's come back with results. Reinstating him… it's worked out in the end… although I don't think his D.I friend likes me very much" He couldn't help himself and he had to smile a little as he thought of D.I Lestrade. The inspector hadn't trusted him from the word go, despite what he'd done for Sherlock and even for the D.I. _Smart fella, _Robert thought. It was a pity that nobody listened to him.

"A good idea?" Moran said, feigning surprise, "Robert, you flatter me. Especially since you were so reluctant to begin with."

"I was concerned that things were… no longer like they were. Sherlock has grown up and, if things had have changed, he'd have seen right through me and I'd be in prison. I was taking a very big risk in simply hoping that he was still as mindlessly devoted to me as he ever was." The unintelligible smile appeared on Moran's face again.

"A son never forgets his father, Robert." The sniper allowed that to sink in for a moment, before he nonchalantly pointed to the biscuit on Robert's plate, "May I? I've not eaten today, the traffic was a nightmare." Robert shrugged, a hollow feeling spreading in his stomach at Moran's frankly frightening change of demeanour. Moran took it, breaking it in half as he spoke.

"Sherlock has given us everything we need so far, to that I agree. He's dug out a lot of Jim's old contacts, the bank details of those pesky clients that remained after Jim died…he's done good work."

"I don't see why Moriarty couldn't just have a client list like every other business," Robert muttered, but he already knew the answer.

"And risk it being found? No no, Jim was far more careful than that, which is why we're in such a dilemma. With every client's details your son reveals to us, each hidey hole of underworld funds he uncovers hidden in these suicides and extortions of our dubious clientele that you give him, the more money we retrieve back from… our investments." He paused for a moment, considering, "Which, by the way, I must apologise for that first couple I made a mess of but I was hoping to off put our little detective, eh? A nice murder always takes the focus off the bank accounts of a few low life criminals. It's nice to think that our little dash hound is searching for a serial killer, when in fact he should be looking for a thief. I think Jim would like that, don't you think? It's like something out of an Agatha Christie novel."

Moran laughed and Robert could imagine the blood dripping from the murder in his eyes, like it was spilling over from all of the crimes he'd committed. Moran's trigger finger twitched as he lifted the biscuit up to his mouth and bit down.

"But now we have a problem Robert. The longer we take to do this, the more clients realise that Moriarty is gone and start to flee or even, like some of those cases you've been sending to Sherlock, the stupid sods off themselves and we're left with no money."

Robert frowned. "Sherlock takes one case, two tops. I can't just go in and-"

"Robert. Your son was missing for 3 months, in which time three of Jim's snipers went missing and two of his bank accounts were closed down, costing me no less than 6 million pounds," Moran's voice became a snarl, gritting his words out like glass on sandpaper, "Sherlock Holmes might not know your intentions but he knows what I am looking for and I am damn certain that he knows where every single fucking client is, do you hear me? Now, what I am saying to you Robert is that I am growing very impatient with the progress so far. He's playing a game with me, keeping these names from me and I am getting tired of it. Playing games with me only ever ends in tears, Robert. I don't play as nice as Jim does"

The chatter in the café didn't die down. Nobody turned and stared. A waitress didn't come over to ask what the problem was because Moran had spoken in little more than a whisper and yet, Robert Holmes could have sworn that the words had been screamed at him. Moran didn't _need _to raise his voice. It was insane, watching how calm Moran looked even in his violence. The unsettling way that he always seemed to level-headed even when he was threatening pain in a thousand ways and it reminded Robert that this man had been a soldier once, even if he had been dismissed for reasons as yet unknown to Robert. But he was pretty sure he could guess.

Moran leaned back in his chair, dotting up some biscuit crumbs from the table with a napkin, eyes leaving Robert. Reprieving him as the elder Holmes swallowed tightly and squirmed in his seat.

"So," he said, voice snapping back to its usual calm, light tone, "I need you to move things along. Sherlock must have a list somewhere whether it is on paper or in his head, but every second I wait, we lose money. Jim's money."

The mention of Moriarty sounded almost upset, his voice dipping low to an unusual, twisting pitch that was mixed between sadness and bitterness, swiftly covered it. It reminded Robert, quite suddenly and uncomfortably, of John Watson. The comparisons between Sherlock and Moriarty were obvious but if Robert had to say which comparison was clearer to him, it was of John Watson and Sebastian Moran. They both possessed that annoying, dependent loyalty to their genius cohorts and their army training made them both the arguably most physically deadly of each half of the duos, which was a frightening mix to be together. The most disturbing factor however was that Moran was genuinely grieving for his dead companion. While John had allowed his grief to consume him, Moran's drove him, forcing him to destroy the murder he saw in Sherlock. While Robert couldn't imagine Dr Watson ever taking such a course, it wouldn't take much more of a push to turn a man even as genial and good as John Watson into a man like Moran. They were the same side of two different coins, moulded by tiny differences; the circus mirror where through the distortion, the base of the person was still recognisable-

"You will get me those names Robert. I am giving you a chance here to get your fair share and pay off those… nasty debts to dangerous people that you seem to have angered," Moran continued. Robert opened his mouth, closed it and took a moment of respite in his tea instead.

"How quickly do you expect me to get them?" he matched evenly. Moran smiled.

"I'm being generous when I say I would like these by the end of this week Robert," Moran grinned. Robert blinked. _2 days? He was giving him only two days to collect several _hundred _names? _

"Two days? That's impractical, there's no way-"

"Robert, you don't understand me. I am giving you two days to retrieve this information for me or I will retrieve it myself and I don't care how far I have to dig into your son's brain to scoop it out. I would very much enjoy your continued input into this effort but if I am forced to… _cut _you from this deal, I will." The words were a snarl, contempt incarnate and if not for the sudden ice packed into his blood, Robert would have been angry. His jaw locked and his fists clenched, trying to focus his anger into the fear he knew he should feel for this man; the man that had dragged in body parts to show Moriarty to prove that his targets were dead. That they'd died agonisingly.

_2 days to get hundreds of details from the mind of the smartest detective alive, without him knowing… otherwise his brains might well be cleaned from the walls and I will be dead. Or fed back to the people I owe money to with no means to pay them and chewed back out into bloody, mangled pieces. _Robert almost laughed at the ridiculousness of his situation.

He clenched his fists tighter, wanting nothing more than to slam them down on the table, to shout and cause a scene because Moran had trapped him in a net without so much as even raising his voice.

"I understand just fine." Moran smiled.

"Good. That's good. Now then, now that business is over, I think I may just order something to eat. Are you going to be joining me?" Robert swallowed and the image of the bomb technician that Moran had told him he'd dismembered came suddenly into his mind.

_Bide your time, _he told himself, _this guy's not going to beat you. _The surge of thrill came to him as he felt the game's groundings shifting beneath him and sent a spike of anticipation straight to his chest and he felt his mouth tilt into a smile. He nodded.

"Of course." The rules were going to change soon. These were going to be his rules.

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**_A/N Burn the evidence (me and this chapter). *Runs and hides* I'm sorry, I suck, I know, it's just this once! (Twice? Three times? …10? XD) … Okay, so, did anyone at all out there understand that? … It made sense in my head… but not on paper o.O _**

**_Thank you for sticking with me guys and I'll be back to normal scheduling now so I'll be back to normal scheduling now so I'll be returning (hopefully) on Sunday! Love ya'll, thanks for reading!_**


	18. Gun

**_A/N: Hello my dearest readers once more! How is everyone? Have you had a nice week? I want to first, thank you all for reviewing so kindly! I was very worried aout last chapter but you guys were so nice! To chironsgirl: As I couldn't reply over PM, I'm very glad you liked the chapter, your review was very touching and I hope that your leg is better soon my dear! Being ill is an awful business so I hope you're back to 100% soon :)  
As for this chapter, I greatly enjoyed writing this one :D I've been waiting for it and building up to it for a while and am very excited to hear how people respond to this as it's an interesting (hopefully) culmination of things :S But anyway, I enjoyed it so I hope you do too!  
Also, I apologise in advance if the formatting for this chapter is a wee bit weird, blame Microsoft word, it has screwed up my work -_- I myself struggle reading badly formatting scripts so if you do too, feel free to throw fruit at it if it does turn out strange :D  
Disclaimer: Prison sucks -_- *plays prison harmonica* Apparently the police aren't as stupid as Sherlock says they are and have me on a charge for dumping my psychiatrist in a pit of snakes, which is so not true! I have to share a cell with six flying monkeys and none of them can hit the toilet when they go -_- Anyone got a good lawyer I can use _****_until I break out of here with an army of monkeys_****_? _**

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John's head hurt and he knew that it wasn't just because Sherlock hadn't had a break from playing his violin for four straight hours. In all honesty, John hadn't seen or heard much from Sherlock since yesterday when Mycroft had visited them and the peace and quiet had been welcome but it wasn't long before the temptation to look at Mycroft's files had become too great and he had finally given in, retreating to his bedroom to read them.

Now, as he read them however, his head felt it was going to split, the rows of names and numbers seeming to merge together as he read them over and over. He wished that he could show them to Sherlock but he knew that the answer he would get in response to that would be less than kindly. He scanned the numbers once more and sighed. Each and every case that Robert Holmes had given Sherlock had one thing in common: Their bank accounts. The pattern was clever, almost unnoticeable but one the data was laid out in the way that Mycroft had done it, it was almost clear. Each of the people had had money going into and out of their banks to a certain location. The locations varied, but they were obvious when laid out; they were repeated sometimes in other people's records or took out unusual lumps of money, not enough to be easily noticed, but with enough audacity that the right person could trace them.

John groaned, rolling over on his bed and closing his eyes. What the hell did all of this mean? Something, or someone, linked all of these people. But who? And why was Mycroft so worried about it? Why was Robert Holmes so interested in these people? He rubbed his eyes, trying to rub away the headache. That was when he heard it. He sat up quickly, ignoring his headache, listening carefully. The sound didn't come again and he wondered if he'd imagined it but he was certain that the front door had closed. Granted, it had been opened very quietly, but all the same, it was an all too familiar sound to miss. He waited and when he heard nothing again, he sighed. He was tired. No doubt he was hearing things. He was about to lay back down when he heard a sound again and this time it was definite. Someone was coming up the stairs to the flat.

John froze, listening. It wasn't unusual to hear Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs sometimes to see them or put shopping in the fridge if she'd been out, but as far as John knew, she had only left an hour or so ago. And Sherlock, despite having finally stopped his violin playing, was still in the living room; John certainly hadn't heard him leave. It could be Lestrade, John supposed, or even Mycroft, but there had been no knock at the door and whoever this was, they were trying not to make a lot of noise. There was nothing for a moment but when the creak came again, John was certain that it was coming up the stairs and his heart jumped as he shot up, scrambling out of bed, a hundred military drills and rules running through his head.

He bounded down his own set of stairs, heart pounding. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong, he could feel it. The way the steps were trying so hard to be silent, in the heavy weight they carried; everything about them screamed danger. He didn't know if it was because of what he had just seen in the files he was looking over, but he was certain that it wasn't just his imagination. He hit the landing at a run and came to a skittering stop, freezing at what he saw.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, thankful when his friend turned immediately from where he was lost deep in thought, looking out of the window.

The other man in the room, however, also turned. John's heart sank. Lestrade had been right all along. Even Mycroft had known, in fact, he had tried to warn John and yet, it had still come to this. Robert Holmes was stood, a mixture of sweat and rain dripping from his usually styled hair onto the floor; the gun in his hand was firmly pointed at Sherlock. John instinctively stepped forward, concern for his friend outweighing the immediacy of the situation but was stopped when Robert swung his arm round, the barrel of a very recognisable gun now pointed at him. John felt a shiver of fear as he realised that it was his own gun, the one he had kept hidden in the house and he closed his eyes as he silently berated himself. Robert Holmes had searched the house only yesterday and John hadn't checked for his gun. He could imagine Sherlock calling him an idiot right now, but when he looked at his friend, there was only a look of shock and disbelief affixed to his expression.

"Don't move, Doctor Watson,"Robert said, tone low and breathless, as if he had run here. _He's desperate about something, _John concluded and, by the look that Sherlock gave him, Sherlock had come to that conclusion also. Unfortunately, if anything, that only seemed to make his own situation worse. There was nothing John knew that was more dangerous than a desperate man with a gun and he was dismayed to see that the gun had not wavered for where it was aimed at his forehead. Robert turned his head to look at Sherlock momentarily before flicking back to keep his attention on John.

"I was not going to shoot you Sherlock," he said slowly, "I need some information from you." Sherlock stared at him like he'd gone mad and John could see him calculating the distance he'd have to move to get to his father and if he could make it before the gun could be fired. Evidently, the answer was no as Sherlock didn't move, simply stared at his father, weighing up the options.

"Mycroft was right," Sherlock said and then, oddly, he laughed, "It makes a change". He sobered up quickly and fixed his father with a hard stare. "Let him go, father," Sherlock said calmly, "If it is information from me that you want, there is no need to keep your hold over the doctor." The words sounded cold but John knew that it was for his own good. To appear detached was to seem invulnerable, an advantage that they desperately needed right now. Knowing that Sherlock was firmly on his side made John relax a little, even if the gun had not yet moved.

"Stand over there,"Robert growled, gesturing the gun to the side a little so that John moved, walking an entire semi-circle to where he was stopped, a little over a metre to the right of his flatmate. He saw that he was out of arm's reach for Sherlock but he had the chance at least to glance over his friend, glad to see that he was unharmed. Had he not heard the stairs, John would not have even known that someone was with Sherlock until it was too late.

"Actually, Sherlock, a weakness of yours has always been other people. You knew better than to have friends and did so anyway, therefore you have to pay the cost of such companionship. I think I'll keep the doctor here a little longer," Robert snapped. John knew Robert's game plan and wondered if he'd meant for him to hear his footsteps on the stairs. Robert knew, like Moriarty did, that John was Sherlock's weakness and he was exploiting it. It was obviously a show that he had studied Sherlock well enough to know what made him tick, but it was a clumsy, desperate effort. Robert was scared of something, all of which could only make their situation more tenuous.

_Moriarty used me to get to Sherlock too, _John thought. For a moment, he felt sadness fill him; this wasn't the only time that he had been used to hurt Sherlock. The thought didn't have the chance to remain for long however and John pushed it down, promising himself to deal with it at a better time, as it suddenly struck him.

"You're – you're working for Moriarty?" John managed, confusion making him stutter over his words. Sherlock apparently was also confused because his head tilted at John, perplexed. Robert laughed, a short, manic thing that sent a chill down John's back.

"Moriarty's dead," the older man spat.

"Then why have you got Sherlock working to find all those people who are connected to him?" John asked. Everything seemed to make sense now, almost everything was falling into place. Mycroft had almost had it but now, with Robert's last-ditch attempt here, John finally saw it. "Mycroft gave me the case files," John continued, "And every last one of them had a link to Moriarty."

There was a long silence in which the air seemed to hold still, the very air in the room seemed to freeze like bated breath.

"Moran," Sherlock said suddenly. The single word was a breath into the stillness, barely audible, but that didn't detract from the pained, lost quality to it. "You're working with Sebastian Moran." John frowned, almost forgetting that he currently had a gun pointed right at him.

"Who?"

"Shut up Sherlock," Robert suddenly snarled, eyes hinting to the gun he was holding, a warning that Sherlock didn't heed, instead, continuing louder, his voice stronger but still disbelieving. John could tell that Sherlock still didn't want to believe it, his eyes pleading with his father for it not to be true.

"Moriarty's right hand man. You're working with him, aren't you? I trusted you and you're-" Sherlock gave another bitter laugh, "I've been so stupid not to see it. You're searching for Moriarty's client list, aren't you? Moran thinks I have it." He stared blankly at his father and John hated the blank, heartbroken look in his eyes. "I don't."

Robert flinched at that.

"You're a liar. Moran _knows _you have those names! You took down those snipers, the bank accounts; you must know the names of the clients that-"

"I don't," Sherlock cut in, "If I had, they would be in protection right now, not being killed by Moran or committing suicide." John heard the robotic tinge to Sherlock's voice. This was just a routine, a show in order to keep things moving and not put either of them in any more danger. John could see, as plain as day, that Sherlock was cracking underneath and it wouldn't be long before they started showing.

Robert shook his head and took a step towards John and John struggled not to move back, breath picking up at the manic look in Robert's eyes.

"Stop fucking lying to me Sherlock! You know these names! You goddamn know them!" he yelled and Sherlock visibly flinched, swallowing tightly. The man he had admired so much was crumbling before his eyes, the façade that had been shown to him for all his life was falling like a curtain on a play, lifting to reveal the truth beneath.

"What does Moran have over you?" Sherlock's voice did crack at that and John's eyes flicked worriedly between the gun and Sherlock, fear pulsing in his veins. Sherlock wasn't going to hold his cool for much longer. _Come on John. For God's sake, do something!_

"You're in trouble aren't you? You need the money," Sherlock said, "You should have just asked for aid from Lestrade, or me, even. You don't-"

"I don't want to hear it," Robert snapped, his voice like sharp ice, "The only thing I want to hear, Sherlock, is the names. I want you to sit down and I want you to write them, right now, or I am going to shoot Dr Watson."Both Sherlock and John knew that he wasn't bluffing, not when he was this desperate, and they exchanged glances.

"I don't have them," Sherlock insisted firmly.

"You're lying Sherlock. I don't appreciate that," Robert growled, "And neither will John if you force me to fire this gun. I'm going to give you until the count of three. And then, should I not have the answer I need, I will shoot your friend." John felt his stomach clench, realising that his life was pretty much entirely in Sherlock's hands and yet, he trusted him completely, in fact the thing that worried him was the effect of this entire situation on Sherlock. Robert was counting to three, like an angry parent with a disobedient child and it was probably the most sickeningly unreal situation John had ever been in.

"One," Robert began to count. Sherlock looked at John and he could see the detective's mind working at full speed. John didn't even know what names Robert was talking about, only that someone close to Moriarty wanted them and, whether Sherlock had the names or not, John knew that the decision was Sherlock's to make. Without knowing the power of the list that his flatmate supposedly had, John didn't have any means of making the decision that his friend had to make. He didn't want to die, hell, he was going to do anything in his power to get out of this alive, but he trusted his friend's judgement and so, he waited in silence for Sherlock's decision, or a code-word or movement.

"Two." John bit the inside of his lip, anxiousness making him tense all over. Sherlock looked torn, completely at a loss and that scared John more than the gun or the man holding it.

"I don't have the list," Sherlock spluttered out and John could sense the barely concealed panic, "I don't have it, you're wrong."

"Don't test me Sherlock."

"Father, I don't have it. Please, you're making a mistake-"

"_Please?"_ Robert laughed, "You can do better than that Sherlock. Where is that clever boy I raised?" He tilted his head at his son and sighed. "You've done this yourself Sherlock; I'm giving you a final chance." He waited and Sherlock was visibly scrambled for something to say when his father smirked and gave a deranged, jerky shrug, desperation morphing him into something different entirely; the monster of Dr Frankenstein, born of fear.

"Three," Robert said.

John tensed for the gunshot, already moving to try and at least earn himself a bit more time. But the shot never fired. John heard Robert grunt and then there was the sound of a thud and a scuffle and when John's eyes finally locked onto the sounds once again, he blinked in surprise at the sight. He realised that his movement had brought him close to where Sherlock had previously been stood but that the detective had moved too, forwards in the direction of his father and John was certain that he had been going for the gun. He had never got the chance to make it however as someone else had got there before him and John couldn't help but gape when he saw the suited frame of Mycroft Holmes locked as tightly as he could around the older Holmes.

_When the hell had Mycroft got here? _John thought. It was no surprise however that he hadn't seen him; Robert had been blocking his view of the stairs and even the eldest Holmes had been too distracted to bother watching them. John didn't ponder this long however, instead diving straight for Robert, knowing that Mycroft wouldn't hold the older man for long. Even though the man was older, he'd also had military training and had a gun, which, compared to Mycroft who had a desk job and, truthfully, not the fittest physique, his son was struggling to keep him under control.

John didn't get the chance to make contact with the elder man though and he wasn't sure if he yelled out or not when Robert twisted his hand from Mycroft's grip and fired, still struggling, the bullet stabbing into the wall a few paces from where John was stood. Sherlock was at his side in seconds, reaching to try and secure his hold on his struggling father but a sudden, well timed shift in the Superintendent's weight allowed him to slip from Mycroft's grasp. Mycroft gave a curse, trying to stand with his father and hold on but it failed and the older Holmes managed to fire off another shot that skimmed the air between John and Sherlock's head.

John realised a few seconds later that he was too late and he watched as Robert Holmes' forearm secured a tight grip around his eldest son's neck. Mycroft made a garrotted sound when Robert cinched his arm in tighter around his throat and John froze, paralysed by indecision as Robert forced the gun against the temple of Mycroft's head and, with a sickening click, knocked back the safety.

"I dare you to make one more move," Robert shot at them.

Realising that the words were in no way a bluff, John made a small step back, eyes fastened on the ridiculously calm Mycroft that was being held tight against his father. John couldn't believe it; not just that Mycroft was here and that he had risked his life to save both Sherlock and himself, but that he was now being faced with the most disturbing sight he'd ever seen in his life; the sight of a father, a man who was supposedly meant to protect his children at all costs, holding a loaded gun to his own son's head. Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't seem half as surprised as John felt, his face blank, if a little pained and when John flashed a glance at Sherlock, he could see the same schooled expression on his friend's face, masking the surprise beneath it.

"Now then," Robert snarled, "We'll try this again, shall we? I want the names Sherlock. Now." Sherlock watched him, calculating.

"I have nothing to tell you." John winced as Robert delivered a sharp kick to the back of Mycroft's knee and Mycroft went down with a hiss, landing heavily on his knees. Sherlock remained passive, the tension in the air remaining like a thick blanket over them.

"Go on," Sherlock challenged evenly, "Shoot him."

Robert narrowed his eyes.

"I'll do it Sherlock. I'm not bluffing," Robert snapped. Sherlock set his jaw.

"I know. Go ahead, do it." John looked at Sherlock in shock. Surely, he didn't mean it? John knew he was angry with his brother, but this was insane, even for Sherlock. Mycroft was looking at him too, his face losing its mask and forming into shock.

"I don't care, do it," Sherlock said, "I don't have any names father."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began but the gun dug further at the side of his head and he clenched his teeth as the cold metal forced him to tilt his head away from the pressure.

"Robert," John said slowly, "Put the gun down, we can help you."

"No we can't John," Sherlock snapped, "Shoot him. Go on."

"Robert, don't"

"Shoot him."

John whirled to face Sherlock, mouth open to tell him to shut up but his words caught in his mouth when he caught sight of the hands clasped tightly behind Sherlock's back, out of his father's sight. Sherlock was shaking. John blinked, looking to the gun at Mycroft's head, Robert's clenched teeth. Sherlock was bluffing. John's heart dropped. Sherlock was trying to bluff his way out of this… and Mycroft had yet to realise it. Horror swept over John as the realisation hit him; Mycroft was currently in the belief that Sherlock, his only brother, didn't care if his own father killed him. The enormity of the situation made John's stomach churn.

"Sherlock," he began but Sherlock sent him a pleading look. _This is the only way. _Mycroft seemed to be trying to work Sherlock out, trying to decipher his expression but everything on Mycroft's face was full of disbelief and confusion at the blank, hard mask on his brother's face. Sherlock clenched his hands behind his back.

"I_ dare_ you," Sherlock snarled, "Or are you not the man I thought you were?"

It happened faster than John could have thought possible and it took him more than a few seconds to process it. The gun whirled to face Sherlock with a roar that was only half human and John only just managed to shove Sherlock out of the way as a deafening crack echoed into the room as the gun went off. John landed hard onto the floor, Sherlock half beneath him, looking slightly dazed from John's actions. He knew he was probably not going to get a thank you from the detective for saving his life but they both knew that he'd acted fast enough to keep them both out of the firing range. John turned his head immediately, fully prepared to see Robert taking aim at them again but he felt Sherlock's entire body tense as he too looked.

The blood was barely visible through Mycroft's black jacket but it was already beginning to drip onto the floor in frighteningly large splashes. He was still stood but his entire body looked buckled and it took John a moment to work out what had happened. Robert had raised the gun to fire at Sherlock and Mycroft had taken the chance. Whether he intended to take the bullet for Sherlock or whether to tackle his father to the ground, John knew that the only thing on Mycroft's mind at that moment had been Sherlock. As a Holmes, he would known the odds, but John knew from his own experience that that wouldn't have mattered to him. Sherlock was family.

Robert was still stood, gun still frozen where he'd fired it and he was staring at his son in a statue of shock. The whole room was silent for a second and they all had eyes on Mycroft as the man gave a small gasp and a cough, like the full force of what had happened had only just hit him and then his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor with a cry.

Both John and Sherlock were up before he hit the ground and John grunted a few words to Sherlock.

"I've got your brother, get your dad," John barked. Sherlock looked like he was about to argue but he knew that Mycroft needed a doctor, needed one immediately, and there was nothing that Sherlock alone could do for him. They both knew that John's army experience would be a better match to Sherlock's father, but, in a moment of silent agreement, they both knew. Right now, Mycroft was more important.

Robert snapped out of his shock in moments and Sherlock snarled when his father dodged the fist he sent flying at him. He managed to knock the gun from his father's hand with a second hit, followed quickly with an elbow that jabbed sharply into Robert's wrist, the bones making a sound as they ground together. Sherlock didn't hold back, knowing that Robert wouldn't either but there was a sharp pain in his stomach that he had to force down every time he sent a punch, memories resurfacing like nightmares in his head. He had trusted this man, admired him and even chose him above his own brother and now they were here, once again putting the people he cared about in danger because he had ignored them and tried to fight the battle alone once more. He tried to aim a hit at Robert's gut but it was blocked with military proficiency and Sherlock knew that this wasn't a fight he was going to win easily, especially as he was having to try and blank out the nagging, twisting feeling in his gut that seemed only satisfied when he glanced back to where John was trying to put pressure onto Mycroft's wound.

Robert used the distraction to quickly attempt a jab at his son and Sherlock had to stumble back to avoid the hit that would have broken his nose had it made contact. The punch was followed up with two more and the strength behind them was more than Sherlock anticipated and he felt something crack in his arm as he blocked it, trying his own jab to his father's elbow. The move was expected however and Robert stepped in, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's neck in an attempt to throw the man but Sherlock twisted out, not having the chance to fully right himself before there was a sharp, downwards fist to his shoulder that made him cry out and he went down onto one knee, hissing in pain. Robert grinned, hooking his foot around Sherlock's leg and tugging, sending Sherlock crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. He grinned, the expression manic and somewhat fearful and his eyes flashed to the gun on the floor, then at John before he finally let them rest on Sherlock.

The calculations ran through Robert's head and Sherlock knew before he'd even completed them that he wouldn't finish what he started. With a frustrated snarl, Robert turned and, leaving the gun on the floor, hurried down the stairs. He knew that the longer he stayed, the less his chance would be of getting away. Sherlock didn't bother watching him leave, instead he scrambled up, gasping when pain shot up his leg but he ignored it, limping quickly to the pale, bloodied figure laid on the floor.

John was forcefully putting pressure onto the wound and Mycroft gave a sharp cry when he lifted it, checking the wound beneath. Sherlock knelt, the sight sinking in as he scanned his eyes over Mycroft's body. The suit was rumpled now and Sherlock found himself inexplicably searching to find the umbrella that Mycroft always carried, but he shook himself, looking to Mycroft's face in the search of some kind of comfort. He wondered if that was really what he needed. Comfort. Or truth. Maybe even hope of some kind. But instead he found Mycroft biting into his lip, hard enough that he thought his brother might make it bleed, struggling not to scream when John pushed back down, hard onto the blood stained mess that had ripped itself through Mycroft's torso.

"The ambulance is on its way Sherlock. A neighbour called the police when they heard the shot, they'll be here soon okay? Lestrade's coming, they won't be long," John said and for a few moments, his voice sounded far away, like Sherlock couldn't hear him, or worse, wasn't listening. He noticed everything, listened to everything, so why was it so difficult to deduce anything right now? Mycroft gave a grunt and Sherlock felt something in his throat stick when he realised there was nothing he could do now until the ambulance arrived. By then, they could be too late.

Mycroft's face was white and shining with sweat as he spoke and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his brother had looked as vulnerable as he did now, all of the façade and the nonchalance stripped away to the simple, sincere look of a man who was dying.

"Sherlock," Mycroft grated out and Sherlock's heart jumped into his mouth when he heard how small his voice sounded. Apparently John heard the weakness in too as he suddenly put more pressure onto the wound, smothering a panicked glance to Sherlock with a schooled doctor's expression. He was just glad that Sherlock didn't see the look he had given him, the momentary fear that he was going to have to tell Sherlock that he didn't know if he could save his only real family.

"M-Mycroft?" Sherlock stuttered out and then, as if it mattered anymore, he seemed to remember who he was talking to, or more, how his mask was supposed to be shaped right now and steadied himself.

"Mycroft, you're going to be alright," Sherlock managed to grind out, as evenly as he could. The panic in his stomach felt like a sickness and for a moment he really did think that he might be sick when Mycroft tried to raise a hand to get Sherlock's attention.

"L-listen," Mycroft said, pain filling his eyes as he choked out a cough that stuck wetly in his throat, "Sherlock, I- I'm s-sorry." Sherlock's eyes widened and the lump in his throat seemed to grow. He snapped his head to look at the window when he heard sirens, spirit managing to fly a little at the hope that they were going to get here in time. Another look at his brother's face told him a different story however and Sherlock knew right then that he had let his mask slip, that his panic had shown because Mycroft shook his head sadly, like he was mourning his own death like something he'd read in the newspaper.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me, when the medics come, you need to move out of the way okay?" John said from far away, "They'll look after him, just let them, alright?" Sherlock felt a flurry of barely retainable terror hit him and he shook his head.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what are you sorry for? Mycroft?" Mycroft tried to give his brother an expression akin to a smile, but it was broken, like he had just done the stupidest thing in the world and hadn't even realised it.

"For-" He was cut off with a hacking cough that finished in a cry that was almost a scream and Mycroft could see John looking at him in sympathy. _Either it's because he's been through this,_ Mycroft thought, _or because he doesn't think I'll finish this sentence. _The thought would have made him laugh if the pain wasn't currently seeping into every single one of his senses.

"For t-telling the police t-that you were taking d-drugs when you w-were…" he didn't manage to finish the sentence after all, another wracking cough taking him and his own fear flared as he realised how much blood was in his throat by the time he'd stopped coughing.

Sherlock frowned, shaking his head, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. They both remembered that day, the day it had rained and they had finally cut the few final tendons that remained of their brotherhood, but neither had spoken about it in such a long time that Sherlock's reaction was hardly a surprise. However, both men knew that that memory was still raining, still trickling drops of regret into their brains every time it was remembered and Sherlock's expression told Mycroft everything. He hadn't been forgiven. But neither was it the most important memory of him that Sherlock had. His expression told him that it was still strong, it still hurt, but somewhere inside, Sherlock still remembered what Mycroft wanted to remember. Playing with Sherlock in the library on cold days, walking him to school when the sun was shining, reading pirate books in nostalgic silence because Sherlock had always wanted to be the loveable rogue who saved the day. Sherlock's face told him that the bad memories were still hurting him, even now, but he hadn't brought himself to let them erase the things that Mycroft still held dear. And that maybe Sherlock still held them dear too.

Mycroft found it a sad irony that the look he had most wanted to see his brother give him, was also the last one he saw before his entire world was sucked away from him and the darkness enveloped him. Whispers of death fell around him and drowned out the sounds of his brother calling his name and of the sirens that were drifting into silence as the darkness finally became absolute and he knew no more.

* * *

_**A/N I'm sorry! I know, I know, I'm a jerk o.O But thank ya'll for reading even when I have awful cliffies o.O Thanks again and I'll see ya'll real soon! XD**_


	19. Text

**_A/N Oh God. I'm such a terrible human being D': What with Christmas and exams and life, I have been a terrible updater D': I AM SO SORRY!  
Okay, this chapter: I have actually changed so much of my plan for If in the course of writing this because I thought it'd fit better but now I just hope that this chapter is all organised in a way that makes sense XD  
Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers and readers that have put up with me, I LOVE YOU ALL MORE THAN YOU CAN KNOW :)  
I will hopefully be posting again before Christmas day (and possibly even be *maybe* starting a set of Q drabbles for the Skyfall fandom over in the James Bond fanfic spot, maybe) but if not I wish you all the most wonderful Christmas and I hope it brings you all the joy and love in the world, you all deserve it very much :) _**

**_Disclaimer: Apparently monkey pee is very strongly acidic and they were missing the toilet for a reason: There is now a giant escape hole in my prison cell wall! Unfortunately monkeys aren't as intelligent as I thought as the hole they've made has simply led me to the next cell along -_- Subsequently I'm spending Christmas with a rather charming serial killer called Betty who knits in her spare time and has told me that while she's never dated anyone called Sherlock, her fourth husband was called Sherman. Sherman currently lives in an urn on her mantelpiece, along with her other six husbands.  
Someone please save me. _**

* * *

There wasn't any pain when Mycroft awoke. In fact, there was not much of anything, other than the knowledge that he was awake. He blinked, his eyes drooping heavily as he tried to focus on keeping them open but it felt as if he'd been awake for days and, as much as he tried, he couldn't stop his head from lolling and his eyes sank shut.

* * *

The second time he awoke, the world snapped into vivid reality almost immediately His eyes still felt uncomfortably heavy and the unfamiliar sense of confusion was still lingering in him but he could see at least and he could hear the rhythmic beat of his own heart, the monitor lying somewhere out of his peripheral vision. He swallowed; his throat sore and he took a moment to allow the data to seep in. _Sore throat, mild numbness to abdominal region, thin sheets. Obvious signs of some form of operation. _He blinked, memory flooding back and he no longer felt the uncomfortable confusion as his mind latched onto the new information. _Shot. _

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said. He let his head fall to the side to look at the chair that was positioned at his bedside and the man perched upon it.  
"The same could be said for you," Sherlock replied blandly and Mycroft raised an eyebrow sluggishly.  
"You didn't expect me to wake up?" Mycroft said. Sherlock didn't reply and the silence dragged out, filled with only the beeping of the heart monitor. _Expensive sheets, if insufficiently warm. Monitor barely used. No other patients. _Mycroft let the data become a distraction, concluding that he was in a private room, presumably with his own surgeon and doctor. If it hadn't been so ridiculous, he would have smiled. Even when they're expecting you to die, the British government like to keep their employees comfortable. He vaguely remembered what Sherlock had said. _He is the British government.  
_  
Mycroft didn't know whether the silence was mournful or disgruntled so he didn't comment  
upon it, instead, allowed the silence to drag on. He filled the space by devising 37 ways he could test Sherlock's mood in his head and, in the end, decided on none of them. He felt oddly distant from his brother, even though he was only sat an arm's reach from him away and contact had never been an integral focus for either of them while growing up. Sherlock's mood was both relevant and, at the same time, wildly irrelevant to the distance; confusing Mycroft's logical aim to past the point that his still drowsy mind could fathom.

"I don't recall waking," Mycroft said at last, "Not for more than a moment. How long have I been unconscious?" Sherlock lingered longingly in the silence and cocked his head at his bother.

"You haven't worked it out already?" Again, Sherlock's tone was impossible to decipher, a certain brand of bitterness mixed with concern and it infuriated Mycroft to no end not to know Sherlock's state but he reminded himself to be patient. He didn't have any right to judge Sherlock's feelings, whatever they were, with old wounds having been open in his younger sibling. Physical deeds meant very little to a Holmes; it was the psychology of a moment that mattered. What a person had to lose, or gain, by aiding him. If their reasons were merely superficial. If they expected that one action to be enough.

Sherlock didn't seem to expect a reply so didn't waste time in supplying his brother with an answer.

"1 day, 18 hours," Sherlock said, "An operation was done immediately. Your heart-" He stopped and Mycroft caught the small, tight swallow in Sherlock's throat. His breath caught. He already knew what Sherlock was going to say but somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

"What about my heart?" he said blandly, trying not to give away the momentary flutter in his stomach.

"It stopped for a little over 6 minutes," Sherlock said finally. Mycroft let that sink on. He'd expected that and yet the words were still enough to make his stomach fall. _6 minutes. _He was lucky that they had even kept trying after that. Luckier still that it hadn't caused brain damage but, then again, he had only been awake for a few moments and that thought sent a chill through him.

"If you hadn't have been British Government, I doubt they would have continued the resuscitation," Sherlock confirmed his thoughts in a bland, apparently uncaring tone. But it wasn't entirely cold. Mycroft heard it there, the slight undertone of concern that only a brother could hear. It was barely even there and yet, to a Holmes, it was distinctive as the sun on a rare clear London day. Panic. Sherlock Holmes had almost lost his brother that day… and he had felt it.

The tone passed without comment. He didn't need to comment on it; Sherlock knew he'd caught it. A glance passed between them and Mycroft wondered if John Watson had had an effect on his brother somehow, however small as right now Sherlock's eyes showed more than he had ever seen revealed on his younger brother's face. Or had he simply let his guard down for a moment, caught unawares and without the protection of his mask?  
Flicking his eyes away, Mycroft endeavoured to sit up, gasping in sudden surprise when the tepid numbness turned to pain in his chest as he tried to push himself upwards. He looked down at the sickly pastel hospital robe and gave a short, bitter chuckle.

"One would think that holding a minor position in the British Government would warrant you the privilege of a half decent hospital gown," he commented dryly. He saw Sherlock flash a small smile.

"Quite," he agreed, putting a hand under Mycroft's arm, steadying him as he finally sank into his cushions, at least slightly more upright than he had been before. The quip was familiar and Mycroft tried to cling onto that, the momentarily feeling of normality. Sherlock however was looking away, fighting hard not to meet his brother's eyes. Mycroft sighed.

"You haven't gone after him," he said. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes still.

"Mycroft-"

"It is possible that he hasn't gone back to Moran. In fact, it's more likely that he hasn't; from what we know Moran is a very dangerous man, he won't be pleased if Robert returns empty handed," Mycroft continued, trying to ignore Sherlock's interruption and the way that his brother's eyes pleaded with him.

"Mycroft-"

"Leaving the country seems a highly probable solution, Robert has contacts abroad, we know that fact for certain."

"_Mycroft_," Sherlock pressed and Mycroft stopped. He let out a slow puff of air at Sherlock's expression, bowing his head.

"You're not going after him?"

Sherlock sat a little straighter, but with his shoulders still sloped defensively it didn't make much of a difference. "I never said that," he said quietly.

"Then what are you saying?" Mycroft snapped. He was done guessing; he was tired of having to constantly try to navigate his brother's emotions. To say that feelings were not a Holmes trait, Mycroft felt like he spent too much time having to try and decipher them. "I may not have much to do with Scotland Yard Sherlock, but I know what attempted murder is, along with all the other crimes that that man has committed. This isn't about _family, _Sherlock," Mycroft snarled. "This is about treating Robert Holmes exactly the same as you would any other man for just once in your life. For God's sake Sherlock, if he hadn't have hit me, he would have shot you or John, have you thought about that?"

Sherlock's green eyes flicked to his brother's face and Mycroft had to bite back a remark when he saw the frantic deducing in his brother's expression, like he was desperately trying to understand what Mycroft meant but couldn't.

"You think he can't do anything wrong Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. His throat protested at the volume and he finished the words on a choked cough, the soreness flaring sharply enough to catch at his words as they rose. He took a deep breath, lowering his voice. Perhaps anywhere else the nurses would have entered but Mycroft imagined that they were used to officials shouting at people here.

"What is it going to take to make you realise that he's not what you seem to think he is? He threatened you, and John, he shot me, he-"

"I know."

Mycroft stopped with a stutter and, with one look at his brother's torn, hurt expression, his heart sank. Sherlock had already come to terms with it. And Mycroft had just gone ahead and re-opened those wounds**. **He still looked like he was trying to process the information, like it was still whirring through the cogs in his brain; but all the same, it was there, resounding through the map of nerves and synapses to reach the illogical mess that made the Holmes so vulnerably human, the emotions that both crippled him and made him.

"And yet you're not going after him?" Mycroft said. The meaning of the words were there but the unspoken contract between them that was, absurdly, still holding meant that neither one of them commented on it. _I'm sorry. _Mycroft felt like he had said those words a hundred times already.

Sherlock grunted out a non-distinct reply and pulled his feet up to his chest in the chair, steepling his hands. Mycroft felt like smirking at the familiar position but it felt hollow.

"Your heart stopped," Sherlock said suddenly. It was a statement of a fact, nothing more, Sherlock's voice plain and unwavering. But it was also a repetition of a fact that they both already knew and that made Mycroft's eyebrows raise and his throat clench a little. Sherlock Holmes never repeated information unless it meant something, personally or otherwise and although the notion was abstract, Mycroft understand what Sherlock was trying at. _Your heart stopped. You almost left. _It seemed ridiculous that Sherlock Holmes would put forward a notion of such sentiment but Mycroft wondered it all the same. Had Sherlock stayed because he was afraid? Because Mycroft had never left Sherlock, even when Sherlock had walked away? Did Sherlock Holmes feel guilt or regret? Mycroft's mind worked to figure the puzzle but it was almost laughable in its irony. They were perhaps the two greatest minds in all of England and yet, here they were, stumbling like children when the puzzle twisted in on itself.

Mycroft's mind craved for more information, to ask more questions but something made him stop and he let the conversation drop, taking Sherlock's words as the only answer he'd receive.

"So," Mycroft said, "what are you intending to do?" Sherlock stared forward for a moment before sucking in a hiss of air and shifting in his seat.

"We have two problems simultaneously," Sherlock said and it was back to business, just like that, the younger Holmes's voice returning to the straightforward, exuberant tone that always seemed to precede the description of a case, even from when Sherlock was just a boy.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, "Both Robert and Moran are out there somewhere, whether together or apart and they're looking for a way to find Moriarty's old clients."

"Which will evidently end badly for them," Sherlock said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, wondering if Sherlock meant for Moran and their father, or for the people that were currently so blissfully unaware of the danger they were on the precipice of.

"Do you know who the clients are?" Mycroft asked. He had been wondering since he got suspicious of Robert's links to Moriarty's cases if it was something to do with what Sherlock did, or didn't, know but the idea had never caught hold. Until now.

Sherlock shook his head. "Moriarty didn't keep any form of evidence as to who his clients were," Sherlock explained, "To know who they were would be all but impossible unless he told you himself."

"Which is how Moran knows about a few clients," Mycroft said.

"But not all of them," Sherlock finished. "So far, so obvious." Mycroft nodded.

"Without it, Moran is in trouble," Mycroft said after a pause, "And, if it is to be believed, so is Robert. They still think you have it." Sherlock shot his brother a wry smile.

"Are you suggesting I offer myself up as bait?" Sherlock said. Mycroft shrugged.

"It is easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar."

Sherlock turned his nose up at the cliché and Mycroft smiled lightly. His brother seemed marginally better when there was a case to work; a problem to solve that didn't involve people's emotions and illogical actions.

"Alright," Sherlock said, "So, I text Father, arrange a meeting and, what, we have a good chance of catching him? Despite our best intentions, we will be treating a symptom. Moran is the cause and, should we close in on Father, Moran will run and we may not get another chance."

Mycroft's mouth twisted in regretful agreement. Sherlock sat, entire body tense with excitement, mind running at lightning speed.

"We need more information on Moran," Mycroft muttered in agreement. Sherlock chuckled.

"Time is not on our side brother," Sherlock smirked and although Mycroft could hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice, the familiar remarks and jibes feeling almost satisfying. Mycroft nodded.

"I'm sure you're more than capable Sherlock," Mycroft retorted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow challengingly but simply nodded.

"I'll put out word," he said plainly, standing. Mycroft followed his movement up, tilting his head despite the soreness that had developed in his neck as his brother shrugged on his coat. For the first time, Mycroft took in how dishevelled Sherlock appeared, his shirt rumpled and if Mycroft wasn't mistake, he could see tiny speckles of dark red dotted on his brother's neck. He wondered if Sherlock had showered since- He cut himself off, deciding not to linger on the thought.

"I'll leave you to…" Sherlock waved a vague hand as if to finish his sentence and Mycroft nodded, allowing the inevitable pause to lengthen so that he could take another look over his brother. He had been thin ever since his return to Baker Street but he looked worse now, his eyes coloured purple underneath and everything about his appearance seemed to be trying to become invisible by wasting away and, not for the first time since he'd awoke, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock had been here longer than he might indicate.

"Do eat something brother," Mycroft admonished, "I would hate to see you waste away before we resolve this."

Sherlock didn't retort immediately and Mycroft noted that he didn't ask for clarification on just what they were resolving and that thought gave him hope.

"I would remind you to eat Mycroft," Sherlock said at last, as loftily as his unkempt appearance would allow him to be, "But I imagine that that won't be a concern. But do try to do as the nurses tell you, I'd hate for them to have to keep you here until after we've resolved this." Mycroft scowled, wishing that his sore neck would allow him to tilt it in indignation but as the movement was impossible, he settled with a petulant folding of his arms. The action reminded him abruptly of Sherlock and he wished momentarily that he and his brother looked more alike, selfishly imagining that seeing any of himself in Sherlock would help the guilt tearing at his stomach.

Sherlock shrugged at Mycroft's glare and tugged on his scarf. Mycroft noticed that his balance was ever so slightly off as he walked to the door and Mycroft no longer had to wonder if Sherlock had been sitting, and worse, sleeping, in that very same chair for almost two days, he knew it. His mouth quirked into a smile which he quickly hid as Sherlock span round before he left.

"I know you'll get bored in the hospital Mycroft, but do try to not start a war before I get home"

* * *

Sherlock had placed a forty per cent chance on receiving the text at some point before the week was out, which is why he met the alert from his phone with mild surprise when he saw the sender was not John. He had had several messages from John, who had left him in the hospital room yesterday when Sherlock had stopped making conversation with him and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the ID on the text as he opened it.

_Moran is in London. I am sending you a map location. He's not expecting you._

- _RH _

Sherlock smiled. Forty per cent chance indeed. He considered for a moment the idea of returning inside to tell Mycroft but he shook the thought from his head. Father was afraid of Moran, enough to try and sell him out so that he could get away. In its own way, it was perfect: delivering exactly what they wanted to them in return for his chance to escape. He imagined that Mycroft already had an idea already, much like he had, that Robert would try this and, much like both his sons, Robert Holmes had already developed nine different plans to counteract theirs. Sherlock committed the text to memory and slid his phone into his pocket, glancing back at the hospital. He shut down the flicker of insecurity that sparked as he considered getting Mycroft's help, deciding it against it. Mycroft was injured, enough so that Sherlock had, for the first time in his life, contemplated the idea of a world where he was the only Holmes sibling. A world without an arch enemy and the annoying cameras in his flats, wherever he lived, the bickering and the taunting. Something akin to guilt made his stomach churn and he hailed a cab in dejected silence.

Besides, playing a game with two Holmes was enough to almost kill a man. Sherlock could not bring himself to factor in another one.

* * *

Mycroft found his phone on his bedside table, as expected. Even in hospital, the British Government apparently didn't get a break, no matter what the general opinion was. He fumbled for it, debating the notion of calling and talking but he quickly dismissed it, his throat too sore to comprehend speaking much more. He flicked down the numbers lazily, his mind hazily managing to read the names on the small screen.

_Turn yourself in. MH_

He paused before sending it, thumb playing over the button as he wondered exactly what it was he expected to achieve. By the time he finally sent it, the screen had darkened, the words merely ominous shadows in the dark.

The reply was almost instantaneous and Mycroft considered for a moment before opening it.

_I see no reason to. Sherlock is going after Moran, is he not? RH_

Mycroft clenched his jaw a little, the cocky tone making him jab at the buttons harder than usual. He knew of no other man in the whole world that he hated more and each stab at the keys made his temper flare.

_You don't know him well enough; I promise that he'll catch you. _

There was a moment's pause before the reply came and Mycroft managed to find some satisfaction in that.

_I know what's best for him. You act very high and mighty Mycroft for someone who has hurt him just as much as I have._

Mycroft snarled at the words and the corners of the phone dug into his hand as he tightened his grip on it.

_At least I tried to raise him. You've got him wrong; he's stronger than you think. He's out in the world, being a hero, unlike you and me. He was right; we're more alike than you know. _

_Your actions will come back and bite you both in the end Mycroft, you know that. We're not alike. You're holding him back. I can help him._

Mycroft gave a disbelieving snort at that, incredulous fury turning his veins to ice.

_You want him dead, _Mycroft typed, hitting the send with more force than he knew he should but his every nerve was on fire with anger.

_No, I want his help. To get rid of what Moriarty created. We can both take on Moran, with his help, I can win and it will finally be finished. Moran will be gone._

Mycroft looked at the text for a long while, the cold fury creating a hollow pit in his stomach, the quiet air of the hospital room punctuated only with the increasing beep of his heart as he allowed the cold silence to sink in.

_No. You want the money, Father, like you always have. You hit mother. You left her sick and took the money; you left Sherlock and I to starve. And when she went out of her mind with pain, she turned on Sherlock because of you. Last year, Sherlock was hurt because of her and that is your fault. You made her hate us. All we did was love her. It's your shame, not mine. _

Mycroft wished for his voice to be strong, wishing he could hear it echo back to him in the room as he finally told this man what he had held back for so many years and yet he was muted, agonisingly silent against the raging force of years of dominating, undisputed power that his father represented.

_You're not a father, _Mycroft stabbed, relishing the appearance of the words on the screen, as if they could deliver everything he had to, _needed _to say in his words, _you're a coward. _

A beat. Nothing but the sound of the monitor and Mycroft's quiet, slow breathing.

_And you're not? _

Mycroft felt his fury settle as the silence closed in on him and he shuddered in the sudden coldness of the room, his stiches aching more prominently than ever.

_You sold your own brother to Moriarty. _

Mycroft didn't even have to consider the message, its reply already stock and stored in his mind.

_I've done worse than that._

* * *

**_A/N Okay, so, I had actually planned this to be spread into three different chapters with different things happening and Sherlock being elsewhere while Mycroft was in hospital but I dunno, I kinda like this better. With no solid leads, it seems more likely to me that the only place where Sherlock would be after such a violent, confusing time with one member of his family would be with another member because that's just how Sherlock is. He has to know, he has to discover and understand why his father would do this to him and the only source available to him at the moment that may hold the key to that puzzle is his brother, even if it means sitting by his bedside for two days while his mind wraps around it. I dunno, it's probably just me, but that's how I feel :D Anyway, thank you soooooo much for being so patient and for reading once more, you guys are awesome! XD _**


	20. Collar

**_A/N Uuuuugggghhhh, I'm such a goober D': I have been mowed under with A level exams and ridiculous shifting at work but, in all honesty, procrastination is half part blaming and doing other things instead of writing and/or not writing what you should and half part being too bloody self-conscious to write it, so if anything is to be blamed, it's me and my brain because this is so laaaaaaaaate D': So, I am really really sorry guys, I promise I'll give myself a good solid slap round the face and tell myself to get over it :D  
But anyways, hello again my sweet dears! Gosh I've missed you! I hope everyone is well and I can't wait to hear from you! I apologise for 1) any errors in spelling/grammar in this chapter but also 2) any inaccuracies with London geography XD I know a bit of geography of London as my parents used to live there but I'm a northern girl so have no idea, so sorry to anyone who knows London well and spots issues with it! :D  
Anyway, I hope you like this chapter and it's good to be posting once again! XD_**

**_Disclaimer: After hearing about Oz: The Great and Powerful and the competition to their rightful place in monkey society, the flying monkeys rallied to defend their rightful positions of power and broke us out of prison! Unfortunately, they deem it necessary to fly me to Hollywood to personally fight against previously mentioned movie monkeys… Someone please tell them that they'll always be our favourite flying fleabags, I mean, monkeys so they'll put me down!?_**

* * *

John jumped from his chair as the door to the flat swung open.

"Sherlock!" John started, surprised to see his friend home.

The moment Mycroft had been taken to the hospital, Sherlock had caught a cab.

"Stay here, I won't be long," Sherlock had said and then he'd gone, the cab drifting off into the night in the opposite direction to the hospital, swallowed by the half-darkness. That had been two days ago and, aside from the occasional text message from his flatmate; he had heard nothing about his friend's whereabouts. And now Sherlock was sweeping back into 221B, coat billowing, arriving as if he had never left. The flurry of movement around the flat was instantaneous and John saw the detective dig around in the living room, oblivious to John.

"Sherlock," John repeated more forcefully. Sherlock shot him an irritated look in response. John sighed.

"Sherlock, where the hell have you been?" John snapped. His skin bubbled in anger as his flatmate ignored him and he had to grit his teeth. Sherlock had just seen his brother shot, the least that John could do was try to keep his patience with him, as hard as that was after spending two days in the flat, alone, with a bloodstain thickening on the rugand only the odd text from Sherlock to keep him from thinking that the very same stain was thickening beneath his friend somewhere in a dark part of London. John didn't even want to mention the other reason for his worry, that little niggling thought that never really left since Moriarty. Every time Sherlock left, there was always the "what if?" The thought that he may not return, as if Moriarty was alive and waiting for him out there somewhere. John shuddered to think that Moran, a part of Moriarty's web, was out there, still waiting.

"Sherlock!" John shouted and Sherlock stopped at that, momentarily tilting his head at John. There was a brief second before Sherlock said anything.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock said and he sounded genuinely puzzled, "I don't understand-"

"You didn't even tell me where you were bloody going Sherlock, I thought- You could have been hurt! Moran could have found you, or your father, for God's sake Sherlock; you have to be more-"

"Careful?" Sherlock finished with a bite. John swallowed his words and looked incredulously at the detective. He lifted an exaggerated, helpless shrug at him. Sherlock's smile was so dry that John thought for a moment that it would shatter the dishevelled, gaunt reflection of his friend.

"We don't have time to be careful John," Sherlock said. John frowned.

"We? Wait a minute, it was you that-"

He was lucky to catch the phone that came sailing his way and John let out a curse. Sherlock ignored him in favour of continuing to search around the room, pickpocketing the sofa and raiding the slippers by the fireplace. For a minute John watched him, weighing up the odds that Sherlock might be trying to find his stash of drugs or cigarettes and if he should intervene. Sherlock hadn't mentioned Mycroft since he had returned home but John didn't need to be a detective to see that the framework of Sherlock's entire world had been rattled. Things had fallen down that Sherlock had believed in and John didn't want to believe that it had shaken him enough to turn to his last resort but he had to entertain the idea, even if it was only to make sure Sherlock didn't hurt himself more. Sherlock's attention switched to the bookshelf and he started tearing through pages in a few of the leather bound notebooks that he had stuffed at the top when they'd first begun re-arranging the flat after his return and John's attention fell to the phone that Sherlock had thrown him.

There was only one message on his phone, despite John having sent him more than a dozen angry texts over the past few days and John felt a sting of frustration when he realised that Sherlock had apparently deleted them. John spotted the name of the sender and felt his throat close a little. He flicked his eyes up to glance at Sherlock who was still gusting through the books with ridiculous speed before looking back down at the phone, rubbing his forehead, feeling a headache coming on as he read the chain of messages.

"Sherlock, you can't really be thinking of going after your dad after all of this?" John said. Sherlock made an indifferent noise and seemed to find what he was looking for in his books, ripping out a page and cramming it into an inside pocket of his jacket. He turned, expression closed to face John.

"Why not? He's a criminal, it's what we do."

"Yeah, but he's also your dad. Who just a day before he- well, before he hurt Mycroft, you believed in whole heartedly," John corrected.

"A mistake on my part," Sherlock said tightly. John sighed.

"Sherlock, what I mean is, you can't be serious about just dashing out and confronting him. Let Lestrade do it, tell him where-"

"No." Sherlock snapped. The look in his eyes told John that the conversation was over and John bit back a frustrated sound at his friend's stubbornness. He sat down on the arm of the armchair with a heavy breath and watched Sherlock scan through the pages of the books. There was something more determined in Sherlock's movements than John had ever seen and it was easy for him to see how rattled Sherlock was. No matter how much he insisted on this being about justice, John had fought in a war long enough to recognise the look in his friend's eyes. This was nothing to do with justice, despite how aloof Sherlock tried to act.

"So," John said finally, resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock wasn't going to be talked out of it, at least, for now, "What's your plan?"

Sherlock ignored him for a few long seconds, engrossed in whatever it was that he was reading. John was sorely tempted to go and read over his shoulder but there was something forbidden embedded in the leather bound volumes that Sherlock had brought home on the day of his return; something that turned John's stomach, as if all the memories of Sherlock's death was encased in each book and he had never had the courage to read them. He didn't think of himself as a coward, but to have those memories lingering over the room, rotting on the top shelf of their bookcase had been a continual source of unease for him. And now that Sherlock had lifted one from the shelf and opened it, it was as if a shadow had crawled out of its pages, dragged itself across the floor and perched itself above the door to stare into John with an intensity that made his hands shake. He couldn't help but think that Sherlock looked too intrigued, too resolute as he poured over whatever diaries of his death that he had brought back and John felt fear spring in him at the idea of the detective being pulled back into that life.

John jumped when Sherlock snapped the book closed.

"We're going," Sherlock said suddenly, "Call Lestrade, I'll be back in a moment."

"I thought you weren't going to call-"

"Forget what I said," Sherlock called back from the hall and John heard his footsteps hurrying up the stairs to John's room. John rolled his eyes. _What the hell was Sherlock up to now? And where exactly were they going to if they were calling Lestrade? _

Regardless, John looked through the contacts in the mobile, taking only a moment's pause to press dial on the only other number besides his own and Mycroft's. It answered on the third ring and John couldn't help but smile a little at that. Despite how much Sherlock annoyed him, Lestrade had been worried ever since the break-in and shooting at the flat and John took a second to imagine the Detective Inspector scrambling for his mobile when the caller ID flashed up.

"Sherlock? Where the bloody hell have you been? John's been worried-"

"It's me Greg," John interrupted.

"Oh, John. Thought you were Sherlock for a minute, why have you got his phone?" The disappointment in his voice was barely recognisable but there all the same.

"Yeah, he's home, he's just got back but he's upstairs. He told me to call you-"

John didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before Sherlock was back and the phone was swiped from his hand.

"Ready? Come on John," Sherlock urged before he put the phone on his shoulder, tilting his head to keep it fixed to his ear while he tugged his scarf on. Startled, John jumped to attention, shrugging on his own coat.

"Could bloody well just ask for the phone," John muttered. Sherlock sent a smug smile in his direction that made John scowl. "Even at a time like this," he mused irritably, "Still manages to be an arrogant twat"

Sherlock either didn't hear or didn't care because he was talking now, hurriedly and John was surprised that Lestrade could even take it all in. A moment later however he proved that apparently he couldn't because Sherlock tutted as he had to repeat himself as he swept past John, down the stairs. John hurried to catch up with Sherlock, cursing.

"No, no, I said I need you to get to South Bank**. **Yes. I'm sending you the address. Bring a team. Oh, I don't know, officers that don't annoy me. Make sure they have at least half a brain cell Lestrade- No, that doesn't mean Sergeant Donovon," Sherlock rushed out as he yanked the door open to step onto the street. John pulled his coat around him, wishing he had more than just an old jumper on as the air had turned brisk in the afternoon. Sherlock flagged down a cab, apparently unaffected by the chill breeze."Anderson? Lestrade, are you listening? I said your best men, not your finest imbeciles, although I realise that may be the same thing with your lot" Lestrade seemed to take offense to that as John heard the voice on the other end of the phone raise. John caught the phrase "What the bloody hell is-" before Sherlock ushered John into the taxi, jumping in after him. He covered the phone for a moment.

"Coventry Street," he waved at the taxi driver. John gave the driver a sympathetic look. The man shrugged and the car smoothed off the pavement into the London traffic.

"I believe that an accomplice of Moriarty is taking refuge at South Bank. He is probably armed so I would take caution detective," Sherlock said, "Yes. Sebastian Moran, ex-military sniper. Yes, well, do use a certain amount of precaution inspector, that might be helpful. Yes. Me? Oh, well, you'll understand if I don't join you, John and I are…" Sherlock sent John a sideways look and something in the ex-soldier's stomach twisted as he recognised the expression. It was almost as if Sherlock was having second thoughts about taking John with him and John recognised that it was the same torn emotion that had plagued Sherlock upon his return, the simultaneous loneliness tossed into turmoil with the need to protect his friend. John gave him a resolute nod. _You're stuck with me, Sherlock. _

"We're compiling evidence. For when you catch him, we have the upmost faith you'll do a splendid job of it inspector," Sherlock finished. He gave a few half-hearted ascertains to what sounded like incredulous questioning from Lestrade before he hung up, his attention turned inwards to his own thoughts. John let him ponder a moment, glancing out of the window to see London pass by. Mycroft had been right all along. He did see things differently when he walked with Sherlock Holmes.

"You really think that Lestrade can arrest Moran?" John said. He was unnerved to notice that Sherlock's initial reaction was a doubtful expression and John could only pray that Sherlock knew what he was doing. If he didn't, it was more than just Lestrade's job on the line; it was possibly his life too.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said at last, "They have the element of surprise at least, Moran won't be expecting Father to betray him, it's one of the few negative side effects of hubris John." There was something poignant about the way that Sherlock said that and John decided not to comment.

"So," John said, "If Lestrade is headed after Moran, that means that you're serious about catching your dad?"

"Of course. It's very difficult to find a person like Robert Holmes if they don't wish to be found John, but luckily, I was hot on his trail from the moment he left our flat. I've had my network on him ever since," Sherlock explained.

"But, what do you intend to do, even if we catch up with him? Arrest him? He's not going to be an easy-"

"One step at a time John, one step at a time," Sherlock said before lapsing into silence. John watched the streets pass outside.

"I've bloody missed this," he said. He sent Sherlock a grin.

"Quite," Sherlock responded and John caught the glint spark off Sherlock's eye as he grinned back.

* * *

The taxi pulled jerkily alongside the hotel that Sherlock had directed them to and John looked at it with distain.

"Apparently crime does pay," he commented, taking in the marble entrance and the statue-esque guard in the navy uniform on the door. Sherlock smiled wryly, leaning forward to pay the taxi driver.

"And… you're footing the taxi fare," John said, surprised, "Should I be worried?" Sherlock scowled at him as they both got out, grimacing at the cold.

"Well, I've not taken to a life of crime, if that's what you mean," Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, "I figured that I should pay, since this is my first "collar" back on the job, shall we say?" John looked at him with scepticism but eventually let out a snort of laughter.

"Please never say the word "collar" ever again Sherlock," John laughed. Sherlock gave him a confused look, which only made John laugh more.

"What, why? Why?" Sherlock pestered as he followed John. John quickly stopped laughing as he caught the grey, stern eyes of the hotel doorman and he hurriedly fell into step beside Sherlock, trying to look like he actually did have a room here that probably cost as much as his rent did for a month.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the doorman grunted warily as they passed, opening the door with a practiced, threatening glare.

Inside, the hotel was just as lavish as the marble front and John had the sudden and almost irresistible urge to reach down and touch the plush carpets, just to see how far his fingers would sink into the spotlessly clean burgundy. Sherlock apparently had no such idea as he was immediately headed towards the desk, the little row of autonomous ladies behind the computers regarding first Sherlock, then John with a certain amount of scorn.

"May I help you… gentlemen?" The one on the furthest right asked and John couldn't help but catch the doubtful tone on "gentlemen".

"I'm looking for a Superintendent Robert Sherrinford, he's staying here. I promised I'd meet him in the foyer today but, obviously he's forgotten. It's a rather urgent and sensitive matter that I have to discuss with him, not something I can talk about on the phone to him. Is there any chance of you being able to give me his room number? My colleague and I are in a bit of a rush, it'd be most useful for us to just head on up there," Sherlock said smoothly. John raised an eyebrow at the lie but quickly gave the woman the most innocent smile he could manage.

The blonde haired woman narrowed her eyes at them and John could practically hear the cogs whirring in her brain as she determined their trustworthiness.

"I can call Mr Sherrinford for you, if you would like, Mr…"

"Watson," Sherlock said and John almost opened his mouth to ask him why the hell he was on last name basis now, before realising that Sherlock had given the woman his name instead of Sherlock's own. He frowned. "And, well, that would be a marvellous idea however, I'm afraid I must insist that you do not. You see, it is extremely sensitive business and, as I mentioned, not to be discussed over the phone. I was hoping to keep it private, you see…"Sherlock dropped his voice, so low that John could barely hear it and John saw him take something from his pocket and slide it discreetly onto the desk. The woman blanched.

"Oh, I see, well… thank you very much for your discretion Mr Watson, it's greatly appreciated here at the Thistle Piccadilly. I'll just look for Mr Sherrinford's room number for you, if you'll wait just a moment."

It was indeed barely a moment later when Sherlock whipped round without so much as a thank you. "Come along John," he said. John opened his mouth, closed it, sent a smile at the blonde haired lady and hurried after the detective.

"What did you show her?" John asked, "And why did you give her my name?" Sherlock spun, thrusting his arm out to present something to John and John had to take a moment to recognise it as a police badge.

"People will believe mostly anything you tell them if they think it might jeopardise them or their job. And I decided that your name was better than mine, with mine being so… heavily focused on in the media just three months ago. Highly unlikely that she'd recognise it but it's always safer to use another name when your own has been dragged through the mud."

"Yeah, but, that's all behind you now… right?"

Sherlock didn't answer and the look in his eye made John hesitate in following him as the detective swept into the lift. His feet stuttering slightly, he sidled in alongside him and the noise of the foyer drifted into nothingness as the doors closed.

They arrived smoothly without a stop onto the correct floor and Sherlock was practically proprietorial in his movements around the corridor and if John hadn't been following him so tentatively, he could imagine people mistaking him for some kind of hotel manager or businessman in the way that he coolly observed each and every doorway.

"John," Sherlock whispered and John hurried to his side, stopping outside the room that Sherlock was indicating. He licked his lips, anxious. There was something more to this door, like it had been waiting for their arrival all along and now they were here, the embossed gold numbers glistened on it in welcome and the handle gaped a broken, jarring smile, like Sherlock's past was seeping through sharpened brass teeth.

John shuddered.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't John," Sherlock said and there was something more to the plea that made silenced him. There was a vengeful solitude to it, the weeping groan that a mountain makes in a bleak winter; both almighty and whimpering all at once.

John nodded. Waited. Finally, Sherlock nodded back and settled a hand on the door, pulling a lock pick from his pocket. It took a few tries but eventually John heard the slip of the lock and it would only take one small movement for the smiling brass handle to turn and open it.

"You ready?" John said. He didn't say any more; didn't need to. _You're not alone Sherlock._

"Yes" _I know. _

The lock clicked and the door swung open.

* * *

**_A/N Again, so sorry for inaccuracies! (I made some bits up about the Thistle Piccadilly hotel I know already :D) and any continuity errors :S I hope you liked it guys but thanks sooooo much for reading and sticking with me no matter what :) I will be posting again sometime this week so stay tuned and thanks again! Until next time my lovelies!_**


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